


Danny

by TheWalrusAndThePenguin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalrusAndThePenguin/pseuds/TheWalrusAndThePenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are still in the 'honeymoon' phase of their relationship when John finds out that he has a son. Angsty, fluffy and lots of John/Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moving my fics from fanfiction.net to here. This fic is somewhat complete. Enjoy!

Sherlock woke to bright sunlight streaming in through the open window next to his bed. He felt John stir beside him and reached up an arm to lazily draw circles over the doctor's back. John nuzzled into Sherlock's shoulder and gently kissed the soft skin at the base of his boyfriend's neck.

"Morning, love," John murmured sleepily. "We forgot to close the blinds last night."

"We were a little preoccupied," Sherlock chuckled. John loved Sherlock like this. Each morning the detective woke affectionate and content. It was one of the only times John saw Sherlock completely relaxed. Sherlock leaned down to brush his lips over John's.

"I'm going to have a shower, Lestrade'll be calling any minute with a case," Sherlock said, disentangling himself from John and walking to the bathroom. It wasn't their phones on the nightstand though that woke John completely; it was the blaring chime of the front door bell. John sat up, sleepily running his hands through his hair before pulling on a t-shirt and Sherlock's pyjama pants.

He wasn't surprised when Mrs Hudson's voice echoed up the stairs. "Boys, it's for you!"

Expecting Lestrade, John wandered into the living room to find a well-dressed woman and a police officer stepping through the doorway.

"Is Lestrade on his way?" John asked, but was met with the look of confusion from both of them.

"John Watson?" the officer asked. John nodded and the man gestured that they should sit down. John let them take the couch and silently pulled up his armchair so he was facing the pair.

"How can I help you?" John asked.

"My name is Caroline Stewart," the woman spoke. "I'm with the Department of Child Care and Services. This is Constable Jeff Carter. I'm afraid the news we bring isn't good." John felt his heart race. Was it his family? Harry? Harry had been sober for nearly a year and he was just waiting for her to relapse and do something stupid.

"Dr Watson," Constable Carter began, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees. "We believe that almost three years ago you were in a relationship with a woman by the name of Joanne Banks?"

For a moment John couldn't put a face to the name, but of course he remembered who she was. He'd been seeing her for two months before he met Sherlock, but she'd broken up with him when his nightmares began getting worse.

"Yesterday Ms Banks was involved in a car accident," the constable continued. "Her car collided with another and rolled into a tree. Paramedics were unable to revive her." John looked down to the floor, before looking up to make eye contact with Constable Carter.

"I'm very sorry that she's gone," John said. "But it's been at least three years since I've seen her. I'm not family, I don't think I even have her number anymore. Why are you here?"

"That's the thing," Caroline Stewart spoke. "Ms Banks didn't have any family. Her only relative, her mother, died last year. That is except for her son."

"Her son?" John asked. "Joanne didn't have a son, I would have known."

"Dr Watson, her son Daniel is two years old and on his birth certificate you're identified as the father."

John stared at her. He raised a hand to brush over the stubble at his chin before shaking his head.

"No," he finally said. "No, it can't be. I can't be his father. I can't be a father."

"Because you work with the police your DNA is on record," the constable interrupted. "We had Daniel tested and his DNA is a match to your own. You are the father."

"We understand that this is difficult to comprehend," Caroline said quietly, watching as the doctor nervously ran a hand through his messy hair. "And you have no legal obligation to take responsibility the boy. He's young, smart, we wouldn't have trouble placing him with a foster family. Eventually he'd get adopted if the right family came along. We would, however, rather you'd take him. As of yesterday Daniel Watson has no family and if you are able to take care of him we'd give you all the support you need to become a single parent."

John had stopped listening after the words "Daniel Watson". How was it possible that there was a child out there that was his own, who carried his name, his DNA? John jolted when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder and looked up to see Sherlock showered and dressed, his hair still damp. John felt his voice catch in his throat and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. Sherlock sat down on the arm of John's chair, looking at the pair on the couch before them.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked before looking up. "What did you tell him?"

"Dr Watson, we understand that this is a difficult decision," Caroline said, standing up. "I'll leave you to think it over. Here's my card, we need to know your decision within the next two days." Caroline led the constable out of the flat and John jumped slightly when he heard the front door slam.

Sherlock moved to kneel in front of John, gently prying the card from between the doctor's fingers.

"Department of Child Care and Services?" Sherlock murmured. He rested a hand on the nape of John's neck, trying to get him to lift his head, but John began to shake. "John, what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong. What did they tell you? What's happened?"

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, the detective's lids hooded with concern and felt a tear fall onto his cheek. How long would it take for Sherlock to run from this? They couldn't look after a child. Sherlock couldn't even stand pets, let alone a tiny human. A tiny boy. Daniel. His son. It was decided; John would have to take him. Of course he would. He'd have to move out and raise this child he was now responsible for.

"I have a son," John eventually said.

"You what?" Sherlock stuttered, something John had never seen him do.

"I have a son," John repeated, feeling another tear fall.

"How?"

John quickly explained, watching as Sherlock sat back on his heels, attention seemingly on the wall behind John. John finished speaking and waited for Sherlock to look at him.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said. "Everything's been so perfect and now this…" But Sherlock wasn't listening.

"When do we collect him?"

"What?" John asked, shocked.

"When do we collect the boy? Daniel, did you say his name is? He must be at the police station, hardly a good place for a child to stay for an extended period of time. We'll need a bed for him. What kind of bed does a two-year old sleep on? A cot? He'll need food, clothes, toys, books. Yes, definitely books." Sherlock seemed to be in a world of his own as he began listing what would need to be taken from the flat to make it safe for a child to live in, but he was interrupted as John launched himself at the detective. They both flew to the floor, John wrapping his arms around the taller man and burrowing his face into Sherlock's neck.

"John! What're you…?" Sherlock began but stopped when he saw John pull back to look at him, eyes full of emotion.

"Thank you," John whispered. Sherlock leaned up to peck John on the lips. John pulled back, a worried look crossing his face. "Sherlock, you hate kids. How will you be with one living here, getting in your way, requiring your attention?"

"I also hate people, John, but you are the exception. I assume a child of yours will be the same."

"We don't know how to look after a child," John rebutted, sitting up and allowing Sherlock to scoot from underneath him.

"Oh, I do," Sherlock said, waving his hand. "It's simple. I was in charge of babysitting my younger cousins when I was still living at home."

"We're really going to do this, then?" John asked.

"It seems we are," Sherlock grinned. "I'll call Mycroft and have him collect all necessary furniture and clothing for the boy from his mother's house."

"I'll call Caroline Stewart," John said. Sherlock stood, but John grasped his wrist. "Sherlock, are you sure? This is permanent. This is a child we'll have. We'll be fathers."

"I wouldn't say yes if I wasn't committed to this, John," Sherlock said, pulling John to his feet. "I want to look after your son. I want to make sure he's okay. We might not know how to be parents, but neither does anyone else. I told you that I was yours and you are mine. What's yours is mine."

"This isn't like me letting you use my laptop. This is a child. He'll be your son, too," John said, looping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "You'll be Daddy Sherlock."

"He can call me 'Father'," Sherlock huffed.

"No he can't," John laughed. "What two-year old can say 'Father'?"

"Ours will," Sherlock said defiantly. "I'm not having an idiot for a child. I'll have to go and buy him some books."

"A two-year old can't read, Sherlock!"

"Then I'll have to teach him. In the meantime I'll settle for reading him my scientific journals before bed."

John sighed, leaning in to rest his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not going to discuss murders with my son, are you?"

"Not until he's older."

John laughed and pulled away, picking up the business card from when it had fallen on the floor.

"Time to go and get our son, then?" He asked Sherlock. Sherlock stepped up behind John and wrapped his arms around the shorter man's waist, resting his head on John's shoulder. John felt Sherlock softly kiss his neck, nodding in confirmation.

 

_To be continued.._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I want to thank everyone for all the positive response for the prologue. Now I have an apology because when I was writing this I didn't really take Danny's age into account. I'm sorry if his talking sounds too advanced for a boy of 26 months old. I have no idea when kids start talking in sentences - I babysit an 18month old and a 3yr old and the younger one doesn't really talk but the older one won't stop talking. I also know a 2 and a half year old who can talk in sentences so not much to go on really. Hope you like this next chapter - we meet Danny in this one!

It wasn't until after lunchtime when Mycroft arrived in his car behind a removal van, ordering the removalists to take the boxes into the flat. Upstairs Sherlock was hurriedly packing away his experiments into boxes and taking them upstairs to John's old room while John mopped up drops of acid off the kitchen floor.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft said as he wandered into the flat. "I suggest you put a gate up between the kitchen and the living room. It wouldn't do good to have your child find a liver in the freezer."

"Sherlock's removed all body parts from the flat," John replied. "Or, at least the ones I know about." Mycroft chuckled.

"Dear brother," he cooed as Sherlock returned from upstairs, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sweat forming on his brow. "Father Sherlock, I never thought I'd see the day."

"Daddy Sherlock," John corrected. Mycroft frowned in distaste.

"It's going to be like a sitcom isn't it?" Sherlock's older brother said.

"Sherlock is perfectly capable of looking after a child," John defended.

"Oh, I know that," Mycroft replied. "If it wasn't for Sherlock our cousins would be neglected troubled youths. But no, they are bright, well rounded adults thanks to him."

The removalists brought up the last of the four boxes as well as a cot and a gate.

"That should be all, brother dearest," Sherlock said. "Thank you."

"Not at all," Mycroft answered. "Now, I want to meet the boy. Perhaps next weekend when he's settled? I'll organise the three of you to come over for tea. Excellent. Good luck." With that Mycroft turned and left, leaving John and Sherlock alone at last.

"I'll finish cleaning the kitchen, could you lock my gun in the safe in my room?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

It wasn't long before the kitchen was spotless, the living room tidy and a small corner opposite the couch where John's desk used to be had been assigned "Daniel's area". Sherlock left John to put up the crib, having no idea how to use the tools in John's toolbox, while he emptied the boxes from Joanne's house. He put the tiny clothes into one of his old trunks next to the crib and piled the stuffed toys in the corner.

Sherlock stood back to admire his work just as John finished adjusting the crib. John stood next to Sherlock, letting him slip an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close.

"What if we suck as dads?" John asked quietly.

"We won't."

"But what if we do?" John asked again, looking up at Sherlock. "We haven't even met the kid, what if he doesn't like us?"

"He will."

"But what if-"

"John, stop," Sherlock said sternly, cupping John's face. "We'll be fine. Daniel needs a family and we can give him that. We'll care for him, we'll love him. That's all we need to do. I don't know how to be a parent any more than you do, but we'll do our very best to make him feel loved."

John leaned up to kiss Sherlock, pulling him close and groaning as Sherlock deepened the kiss. Sherlock nudged John's mouth open, letting his tongue meet John's. They were interrupted by the loud buzz of the front door bell.

"Shit," John said, pulling away. "This is it, then." Sherlock reached down to take John's hand, lacing their fingers together. They listened as Mrs Hudson answered the door and there were footsteps on the stairs.

"Hi, dear, I'm Mrs Hudson," they heard from downstairs. John had gone down earlier to explain to Mrs Hudson the situation and that they'd be having a third person living in the flat. "What's your name?"

"Daniel," they heard a tiny voice echo up the stairs. Sherlock felt John squeeze his hand tighter.

"They're upstairs," Mrs Hudson said.

Moments later Caroline appeared at the doorway with little Daniel at her side, nervously clutching her hand. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. There was no mistaking that Daniel was John's son. He had curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. John let go of Sherlock's hand and stepped forward, crouching down so he was at eye-level with Daniel.

"Hi, Daniel," John said. "My name's John. I'm your Dad."

Daniel looked at him hesitantly for a moment before throwing himself into John's arms. John breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping his arms around the small boy and holding him to his chest. How was it possible that he'd never met his own son? He felt a pang of resentment at Joanne for keeping Daniel away from him and yet as he held his son he couldn't help the happiness that overwhelmed him. He gently pulled away and stepped back, ushering Sherlock forward. Sherlock too crouched down.

"Daniel, this is Sherlock," John introduced. "He's your other Daddy."

Daniel stepped forward, watching Sherlock carefully before lifting a hand to brush over the detective's curls.

"Like me," the little boy grinned, running a hand through his own hair, an action unconsciously replicated by John.

"Yes, just like you," Sherlock beamed at the boy.

"John, we've got some paperwork to fill out," Caroline said, walking to the couch.

"Of course," John said, unable to tear his eyes away from Daniel. Sherlock smiled at John.

_Are you all right with him?_

_Don't worry, we're fine_

John smiled and sat down with Caroline to begin reading through the paperwork. Sherlock led Daniel to the corner where he saw his toys and dived into the pile, pulling out a scruffy rabbit and holding it to his chest.

"Wabbit," Daniel said quietly.

"Rabbit," Sherlock corrected, sitting down next to the boy.

"Wabbit!" Daniel said defiantly, frowning. Sherlock picked up a toy frog and turned back to the boy.

"Fwog?" Sherlock asked, earning a chuckle from Daniel.

"No, silly!" Daniel laughed. "Freddy!"

"Freddy the frog!" Sherlock exclaimed, sighing dramatically.

"You funny, Daddy," Daniel said, reaching up to ruffle Sherlock's curls. Sherlock laughed and picked up the boy, lifting him high above his head. John's attention strayed from the paperwork as he watched Sherlock play with his son.

"There will be more paperwork," Caroline said. "You'll have to come down the office next week, but for now, enjoy your new family. I'll come and check up on him for the next few months but I'll call you later to discuss that." Caroline tidied up the papers, putting them into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

"Bye, Daniel," she called, but Daniel was too busy trying to grab Wabbit from where Sherlock held the toy high above his head. John led Caroline out before coming back to lean against the doorway. He watched as Daniel grabbed Sherlock's collar and pulled himself up onto Sherlock's head, trying and failing to reach for his toy. Daniel toppled over, falling clumsily into Sherlock's lap and giggling up at his 'Daddy'.

John approached Sherlock from behind, making eye contact with Daniel and smiling ad he swiped Wabbit from Sherlock's hands. Daniel giggled and jumped off Sherlock, pulling at John's pant leg. John sat down next to Sherlock and handed the toy to his son. John reached down to take Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together and running his thumb over the back of his hand. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, watching Daniel rummage through his toys.

"We're going to be okay," John whispered and Sherlock gently kissed his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

Hours later John found himself trying to feed both Sherlock and Daniel. Having made enough pasta to feed five John served the three of them, finding a smaller bowl and spoon for Daniel. Sherlock had quickly claimed that he wasn't hungry and watched in silence as John fed his son.

"Daniel, you've got to eat something," John groaned.

"Daddy's not hungry," Daniel said stubbornly.

"Daddy's just pretending not to be hungry," John said.

"Me too," Daniel said, smiling at Sherlock. "I'm tending 'm not hungry too." Sherlock chuckled.

"Don't encourage him," John sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Danny, you have to eat dinner," Sherlock said from across the table.

"You too," the boy said, crossing his arms.

"Danny? When did he become Danny?" John asked, looking between the two of them.

"Just then, suits him doesn't it?"

"Just eat something Sherlock, then he will."

"Not hungry," Sherlock dismissed, leaning forward to look at Daniel closely. "Danny, eat your dinner."

"No."

"Eat your dinner."

"No."

"Eat something."

"You first."

"I'm now a single parent with two children," John said, picking up his fork and starting on his own pasta. Sherlock picked up his own fork and ate a mouthful of pasta.

"Delicious," he said unenthusiastically. "Your turn." Daniel hesitantly picked up his spoon, eying the pasta on it before taking a bite.

"Now you," Daniel said. Sherlock ate. Daniel ate. This continued for the rest of the meal until Daniel yawned loudly, his eyelids drooping.

"Time for bed, little one," Sherlock said, stepping forward to pick 'Danny' up.

"No! Story first," Danny said. "Mummy reads story before bed."

John smiled, taking their bowls to the kitchen and leaving them in the sink. He found Sherlock and Danny in their bedroom, Danny sitting in the middle of the bed and Sherlock propped up against the pillows. Sherlock was holding his worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in one hand and patted the bed with the other. John scooted in next to Sherlock and pulled Danny up onto his lap. The small boy curled up against his dad, resting his head on the doctor's chest.

"The artist is the creator of beautiful things," Sherlock read aloud. As he almost always did with novels, Sherlock found himself lost in the story and fifteen minutes later finished a chapter only to see John and Danny were fast asleep. Danny was sprawled over John's chest; his blonde curls brushing his dad's chin. Sherlock sighed contentedly and leaned down to rest his head on the pillow, watching Danny's tiny body rise and fall with each of John's breaths. He reached up to push a stray curl away from Danny's face and softly traced his cheek.

Sherlock had never wanted kids. He'd never wanted a girlfriend or boyfriend or partner or spouse, and yet here he was quietly cooing over a child that looked exactly like his partner.  _He's so perfect_  he found himself thinking and whether he was thinking about John or Danny it didn't matter because finally after years of being alone Sherlock was happy.

Sherlock didn't know how long he laid and watched them, but after a long while he saw John begin to stir, the weight of Danny causing his bad shoulder to ache. Sherlock gently picked Danny up, rubbing his back as the toddler's head drooped onto his shoulder. He took the boy back into the living room and laid him down in his cot.

"Goodnight my little Watson," Sherlock whispered, pushing Danny's hair up out of his eyes. He walked back into his bedroom and slipped into bed beside John, taking him into his arms and splaying his hands over the doctor's back.

"I love you, John," Sherlock murmured before finally giving in to the clutches of sleep.

* * *

Sherlock jerked awake as he felt John shoot upright beside him. He almost mumbled the familiar question "Nightmare?" before he heard what had woken him. Surely that screeching couldn't be human. John rubbed his eyes and turned to Sherlock.

"I'll get him, go back to sleep," he whispered, stepping out of bed and walking to the living room where his son was lying on his bed in his cot wailing at the top of his lungs.

"Shhhhh," John cooed, picking Danny up and pulling him close. "It's okay, buddy, I've got you."

"Mama!" Danny cried. "Want mama!"

"It's okay," John continued, rubbing soothing circles on Danny's back. "I'm here, Dadda's got you." John quickly changed the boy before beginning began to pace, gently bouncing the boy in his arms and whispering soothing words. Eventually Danny's screams reduced to quiet gurgles and he snuggled up to John, sobbing softly against his shoulder.

John sat down in his armchair and settled Danny on his lap.

"I'm sorry, buddy," John whispered. "I'm sorry about your mum, Dan. Daddy and I are going to try our best, though. We're going to try our best to give you the life she wanted for you."

He looked down to see his son had fallen asleep and was snoring quietly. John rested his head back and was quick to fall asleep himself.

* * *

"Bad for your shoulder…" John heard as he slowly woke up. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock plucking Danny from his arms and putting him back into his cot. It was still dark outside, not yet morning. He felt Sherlock's arms wind around him and lift him off the couch.

"You didn't come back to bed," Sherlock said quietly, carrying John to their bedroom.

"Fell asleep," John replied sleepily.

"I noticed," Sherlock said and John could hear the smile in his voice. Sherlock put John down on the bed and moved to wrap his arms around the smaller man, spooning him from behind.

"Sleeping on that chair is bad for your shoulder," Sherlock whispered.

"Danny didn't seem to mind."

"So he's Danny now, is he?" Sherlock chuckled. John laughed with him and relaxed back against Sherlock.

It was less than two hours later when John woke again, his bad shoulder aching as he tried to rearrange himself. Sherlock pulled him closer.

"Where're you going?" he mumbled groggily.

"My shoulder's killing me," John groaned.

"Roll onto your back," Sherlock said, his voice still husky with sleep. John did as he was told and felt Sherlock's arms winding back around him, pulling him so his upper body was resting against Sherlock's chest, his head tucked into the crook of the other man's neck. It wasn't particularly comfortable for Sherlock, but he wanted John to be able to relax.

Sherlock used his right hand to gently massage the tension out of John's shoulder as the doctor slowly drifted to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When morning came it found John Watson alone in bed, stretching out only to notice that his boyfriend was missing. He sat up slowly, realising he was still in his clothes from the day before. He quickly changed into pyjamas pants and a shirt before making his way out into the kitchen. 

"Then what happened?" John heard Danny ask.

"Then your Dadda came and found me at Buckingham Palace…in a sheet," Sherlock said with a chuckle.

"I thought we weren't discussing murders?" John asked, taking a sip from Sherlock's tea and earning himself an elbow to the ribs.

"Mine," Sherlock huffed, snatching it back. "Kettle's still hot." He pulled John down for a quick kiss before letting him step back and ruffle Danny's hair.

"Morning, bud," John said, picking up his son and resting him on his hip. "Was Daddy telling you scary stories?"

"No," the boy defended. "Not scary, funny."

"He wanted to wake you up," Sherlock explained. "But I said you were still sleeping so he asked for a story about you. I couldn't think of many that didn't involve murders."

"How endearing," John murmured as he moved about the kitchen. Danny fisted his hand in John's shirt and watched as his Dad made tea. "You hungry, Dan?"

"No," Danny said firmly, looking up to grin at John.

"Let's get you some breakfast," John said, putting his cup of tea down next to Sherlock.

"He's already had breakfast," Sherlock said, not looking up from the newspaper in front of him. "He had some toast with jam. He's very much like you, John."

John beamed, reaching up to run his free hand through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock looked up, trying to identify the emotion in John's eyes.

"What?" the detective asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," John grinned. "You're perfect. I love you."

"I love you too, John," Sherlock said, the corner of his lips curling into a small smile. John found himself getting lost in Sherlock's stare. John felt Danny tugging at his shirt and looked down to see the boy trying to wriggle out of his grip. John put his son down, walking to the kitchen to finish making breakfast.

He returned with a plate of toast and jam, sitting next to Sherlock and watching as their son emptied a box of building blocks onto the carpet. The detective absent-mindedly took a piece of toast from John's plate and ate silently.

Following breakfast they showered and dressed quickly. It seemed that despite adding a two-year old to the mix the doctor and the detective could be quite efficient in getting ready of a morning. Before long Danny was dressed in tiny jeans and a tiny t-shirt, rocking impatiently from side to side on Sherlock's armchair as the detective himself buttoned up his shirt. John pulled on a jumper as he walked into the living room just as Sherlock received a text message.

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh? What?" John asked, trying to peer over Sherlock's shoulder.

"We've got a case," Sherlock explained, looking up at John.

"So? That's good, right?"

"But what about Danny?" Sherlock asked, looking to the boy who was now jumping up and down laughing as the chair squeaked.

"I'll stay here, look after him. You go."

"No, John. I need you."

"Okay, then maybe we could get Mrs Hudson to watch him?"

"No, he doesn't know her well. He's been through so much, we can't leave him."

"We could take him with us?" John said hesitantly.

"Am I hearing correctly?" Sherlock grinned. "John Watson saying we should take our son to a crime scene?"

"Well, he won't see anything," John insisted. "We can get Lestrade or someone to watch him while we look at the crime scene, which won't take long."

"Not Anderson," Sherlock said, frowning slightly.

"Of course not, we'll ask Lestrade."

"Okay. Danny, do you want to come with Daddy's to work?"

"Yes!" Danny yelled, jumping off the chair and into Sherlock's waiting arms. John grabbed Danny's bag and they were off, the three of them heading to the crime scene.

* * *

In the months that followed they easily slipped into routine. Mrs Hudson as well as Harry had become regular babysitters and 221B Baker Street was now very much a family home. John had come home from the surgery a month after Danny had moved in to find the living room covered in plastic sheets, Danny sitting in the corner wearing one of John's old sleeping shirts while Sherlock painted the wall a light blue. Bach was echoing through the room from a record player on the coffee table and Sherlock was merrily humming along.

"Sherlock," John called. "Sherlock, what're you  _doing_?" Sherlock spun around to face John, smiling and turning off the record player.

"Painting!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I was bored. Danny was bored." John looked over to see Danny had his own paintbrush and was happily drawing circles on the wall in front of him.

"All this paint can't be good for him," John tutted.

"Danny's got kids paint," Sherlock said, pointing to the different coloured scribbles around the room in reach of Danny. "I thought this room could do with more colour, now it looks more like a room for a child."

"Did you ask Mrs Hudson?"

"No, but she won't mind," Sherlock said, picking up Danny and resting him on his hip. "Give Dadda a hug." Danny reached out and John reluctantly took him, frowning as his jumper was covered in blue and red paint.

"You miss me, Dadda?" Danny asked.

"Of course, baby boy," John smiled, dropping a kiss to Danny's forehead.

"Miss me?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to show John his cheek.

"Always," John replied, placing a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

* * *

It was months later though when John began to see cracks appear in Sherlock's facade. He started taking on more cases, only ate when Danny was watching and began staying up all night like he used to. John didn't know how bad it would get, though, until one night in November.

Sherlock staggered up the stairs, tripping slightly as he stumbled through the doorway into the living room of 221B.

"Where the hell have you been?" John found himself yelling, his frustration boiling over.

"Out," Sherlock replied shortly, breath reeking of alcohol.

"What do you mean 'out'? You said you'd be home soon! That was seven hours ago!"

"I had to pursue a suspect."

"What were you  _thinking_  Sherlock? It's not just you living here! I was worried,  _Danny_  was worried."

"Fine, I'll say goodnight. Where is he?" Sherlock asked, looking to the empty cot.

"In our bed. He wanted to wait for you."

"Okay," Sherlock began to walk to their room, but John stepped in front of him.

"He's asleep, Sherlock! It's two o'clock in the morning! You're not waking him up to drunkenly say goodnight."

"I don't understand why you're so angry," Sherlock huffed.

"You don't understand? Understand this, genius: today I found our son holding a jar of acid.  _Acid, Sherlock!_ "

"How is that my fault?"

"How  _isn't_  it your fault?" John yelled. "Your fucking experiments. What if he'd burned himself?"

"You should have been watching him! All my experiments are locked upstairs in your old room! There is no way he could have gotten in there!"

"Well, obviously it was somewhere because he found it."

"Where were you?" Sherlock rebutted. "Sitting back doing the crossword while Danny roamed freely around the flat?"

"I was making dinner! And don't you dare accuse me of being a bad father because you're the one who left acid in the house!"

"I'm here every day!" Sherlock roared. "Every day I look after him while you're working and you still think lesser of me! What do you do all day when your son is at home waiting for you?"

"I work, you arrogant bastard! You're an arsehole!"

"You're an idiot!" Sherlock spat back. Sherlock had called John an 'idiot' countless times before, but this time it hurt more that John could comprehend. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

John turned and walked to their bedroom, grabbing a duffel bag and throwing clothes in haphazardly. He didn't know what was his and what was Sherlock's, but in his haste he didn't care. He grabbed a handful of Danny's clothes and threw them in on top. He carefully picked up Danny, ignoring the boy's sleepy question "Why are you and Daddy yelling?" and walking back to the living room.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, standing up. "You're not taking Danny!"

"I'm going to Harry's," John sighed.

"Why are you taking him? You can't just take him away!"

"He's my son."

"He's as much my son as he is yours!" Sherlock yelled back. Danny began to cry, screaming at his dads to stop.

"Yeah, take a DNA test and then we'll talk," John said quietly. Sherlock looked like he could punch John, his hands balling into fists at his side. The only thing stopping him was the shaking toddler on John's hip.

"Dadda, I don't want to go," Danny yelled, pushing on John's chest. "Say sorry to Daddy, I want to stay. I'm sorry Daddy, we're sorry. I didn't mean to get crayon on your coat. I'm sorry!"

John stormed down the stairs, narrowly avoiding Mrs Hudson as he made for the front door, Danny's screams carrying all the way back up the stairs. The door slammed and Mrs Hudson slowly walked into the living room of 221B, tutting about how the neighbours would complain.

"Honestly, all that yelling," she said. She stopped quickly when she saw Sherlock, huddled on his chair, knees to his chest. It was only when she got closer, though, when she realised he was crying, his back shaking with silent sobs.

"Oh, dear," she whispered, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"He took Danny," Sherlock murmured quietly. It suddenly hit him that this was the first time in almost four months that Danny wouldn't be sleeping in the room next to his.

"I know, dear," Mrs Hudson cooed.

"He's gone," Sherlock continued, tears still falling down his cheeks.

"You're going to call him tomorrow and say sorry," Mrs Hudson said sternly. "Then tell him to stop this and come home."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting - I've had exams at university. I'll try and have this finished by Christmas. Comments are much appreciated :)

Sherlock didn't call the next day, or the one after in fact. It was only when John had been three days when Sherlock realised that he might not be coming back and grabbed his mobile, frantically calling John.

"Hi, it's John Watson, leave a message," came the familiar answering machine.

"John, it's Sherlock. Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the other night. I shouldn't have said everything I did. Please come home. Please."

Sherlock hung up, staring at the phone in his hands before ringing again only to receive the answering machine again.

"You said some hurtful things too, John. This goes both ways. You just left and I miss you two so much. Come home, John."

Sherlock called twice more leaving similar messages before he got a text from John.

_We're fine. Stop calling. – JW_

_I miss you. – SH_

Sherlock watched the phone for at least half an hour before he knew he wasn't getting a reply.

* * *

Two days on and Sherlock had left forty-seven messages on John's phone as well as thirty-two text messages. Harry called once, only to tell Sherlock that John and Danny were fine and that John wanted him to stop calling. Sherlock took a case. Solved it in hours. Took another. Solved it. Two weeks later he received a message from his brother.

_Eat. Sleep. I'm worried about you. – MH_

_I'm fine. – SH_

_I know John left with Danny. I'm coming over later today. – MH_

_I'm fine. – SH_

_I'm coming over regardless. – MH_

Sherlock had taken two more cases and solved both by the time Mycroft appeared at the doorway, leaning heavily on his umbrella. He didn't ask to come in, simply wandered over, took a seat on John's armchair and watched his brother closely.

"You're not 'fine'," Mycroft said quietly. "When did you last sleep? Or eat?"

"Not your concern," Sherlock replied, his fingers coming together to rest beneath his chin.

"It most definitely is," Mycroft argued. "You need to eat."

"Eating is dull," Sherlock mumbled.  _When there's not a tiny chuckling Watson to watch you_  he thought.

"Sleep, then."

"No. Not without…" Sherlock quickly stopped himself.  _Not without John._

"Sherlock, there's a case," Mycroft finally said.

"A case?" This peaked Sherlock's interest.

"Yes, a case. It's in Switzerland, there's a conference being held there next week and I need you to attend."

"Fine," Sherlock said quietly.

"Fine?" Mycroft asked, it seemed too easy for Sherlock.

"Fine."

* * *

"John, it's me again. I don't even know if you're listening to these anymore, but if you are…I need to see you. I need to see Danny. It's been three weeks, John. At least let me see Danny, just let me drop by. I won't be long. Okay, well, call me and let me know. I miss you."

_You can come over tomorrow at 1pm. We're still at Harry's. – JW_

Sherlock sighed in relief, burrowing his head in his hands before sitting up and calling Mycroft.

The next day at 1pm sharp Sherlock arrived at Harry's house, hesitating momentarily before knocking. John opened the door, his breath audibly catching when he saw Sherlock. John looked horrible, it was clear that he hadn't been sleeping and he had three day's growth of stubble covering his jaw.

"Come in," John said stiffly, gesturing towards the hallway. Sherlock followed him into the lounge room where Danny was playing with his toys.

"DADDY!" Danny yelled and Sherlock bent down to scoop the toddler up in his arms. Sherlock closed his eyes, nuzzling the boy's curls and breathing in his scent.

"I missed you, darling," he whispered. "Oh, I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Daddy," Danny whispered in reply. John busied himself in the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and Danny to catch up. It was less than an hour later when Sherlock crouched in front of Danny to say goodbye.

"Daddy's got to go now," Sherlock said quietly, trying to ignore the fact that he could hear John walk into the room. Sherlock cupped Danny's face in his hands and watched as tears fell down the boy's cheeks.

"No!" Danny yelled. "Don't go, Daddy! Stay! Dadda misses you, he does! Dadda cried! ! We miss Daddy!"

"Danny, I have to go," Sherlock soothed. "It's okay, everything's going to be alright. I love you. I love you so much. Your Dadda knows how much I love him, he knows that."

"Stay!" Danny cried.

"I can't, beautiful boy," Sherlock said, his own tears falling at his son's sadness. Sherlock took Danny into his arms and held him close, placing a kiss on his cheek before pulling back. "You look after your Dadda for me. You take care of him." Sherlock stood, earning a wail from Danny who threw himself down onto the rug and began to cry quietly.

John led Sherlock to the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, but Sherlock stopped him.

"John, look," Sherlock spoke, watching as John tried not to make eye contact. "There's this case. It's in Switzerland. I have to go and I don't know how long it'll be. It's…" Sherlock paused, closing his eyes for a moment.  _It's dangerous, John. Tell me not to go, John. Let me stay here with you._  "It's going to be a tough case. I don't know how it's going to turn out. Just, look after Danny while I'm gone, okay?"

Sherlock brushed a stray tear from his eye before stepping towards the front door. John's arm reached out to stop him, clasping his wrist tightly through the material of his coat.

"Sherlock, if it's dangerous don't go," John pleaded. "It's not worth the risk."

Sherlock smiled sadly, leaning forward and taking John's face in his hands. John's eyelids fluttered closed as Sherlock's lips met his own. It was John who deepened the kiss, opening his mouth up to Sherlock and sighing when Sherlock clutched him tighter. The detective pulled away before it got out of hand.

"I love you, John," he whispered, sweeping the door open and fleeing.

"Sherlock, wait!" John yelled at the street, but Sherlock was already gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor Reichenbach spoilers (mainly the Conan-Doyle storyline rather than the BBC one). Enjoy!

John waited for news from Sherlock. He waited as days turned to weeks. He wasn't surprised when a black car pulled up beside him on the way home from the shops. He slipped inside, grateful that Mycroft had chosen a time when Harry was looking after Danny. They arrived at the exclusive club quickly and John was led to the familiar private room where Mycroft was sitting, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

'Have you got news on Sherlock?" John asked. Mycroft looked up at John, sighed and looked back down to his lap.

"A man called Moriarty had planned to bomb the convention," Mycroft spoke softly, not at all the authoritative voice John knew. "Sherlock tried to stop him, he…did stop him. John I don't know how to tell you this…"

"No," John mouthed, frantically shaking his head. "No!"

"He didn't make it, John," Mycroft finished. John fell forward, off his chair and onto the floor where he knelt, head in hands.

"No," he repeated. "No, no, no, no." John began to sob loudly. He'd never felt pain like this. He could feel his heart breaking, the great wrenching in his chest, which only proved to make him sob louder. Mycroft let John cry, sitting silently as the broken man before him slowly regained himself enough to pull himself back up onto the chair.

"John, my brother gave me this to give to you in case anything were to happen to him," Mycroft said, handing John an envelope. "I can't begin to explain how sorry I am. And just when he'd become a father…I can't begin to imagine…"

"Oh, god, Danny," John said, tears still falling down his cheeks. "What am I meant to tell him? How am I meant to go back and look after him knowing that Sherlock's  _gone_?" John's voice broke on the word 'gone' and soon he was sobbing again.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've taken the liberty of calling your sister while you were on your way here. She's going to look after Danny for at least a week while you recover. You of course can return to 221B."

"Mycroft, do you need anyone?" John asked, only just realising what he must be going through. "I mean, do you have someone? Do you want me to call someone?"

"Don't worry about me," Mycroft said quietly. "You better get going, I have paperwork to fill out. Call me if you need anything at all." Mycroft stood, holding a hand out, but John got to his feet and embraced the taller man, clutching the back of Mycroft's jacket. John almost sobbed as he realised that Mycroft wore the same cologne as Sherlock, they must have gotten it as a Christmas present or the like. He pulled back, stepping away from Mycroft.

"Once again, John, I'm sorry." John nodded and followed him out of the club and to the waiting car. Before he knew it he was sitting on the floor of 221B, his back heaving with great sobs.

He had opened the letter Mycroft had given him, but each time he'd tried to read it the tears would start again and the perfectly slanted handwriting became blurry and unreadable. John hadn't even realised he had fallen to sleep, but when he woke hours later, he found himself clutching the letter in his hands, the pages slightly crinkled around his fingers. He sat up against the couch and began to read.

_Dear John,_

_I'm writing this for Mycroft to pass on to you in case something happens to me while I'm in Switzerland. I'm not usually one to write one of these things, but once more you are my exception, John._

_First and foremost, I need you to know I love you. It's impossible to express the depth of my feelings towards you. I sometimes fear that you'll never know how much I love you. Just know that. Keep that with you. I'll always love you._

_That fight we had John, it tore me apart. We'd never fought like that before. It was my fault for coming home drunk, it was my fault for leaving that acid out (although I still can't remember where I would have left it) and I'm so sorry that I couldn't have left you on more positive terms. Being away from you for the past three weeks has been torture. Being without you and our beautiful boy Danny is unlike any pain I could have imagined. God, he's beautiful, John. He's so much like you. I know initially that you worried that I wouldn't connect with him, but how could I avoid connecting with such a little replica of the man I love most in this world? I don't care if the sun revolves around the moon or the Earth around the sun or whatever you tried to teach me. You are my sun, John and from the moment I met you everything in my world revolved around you._

_I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for leaving you alone with Danny. I never meant for you to be a single parent. You'll do a brilliant job raising him I know that for certain. He's you, John. He may be stubborn and defiant like me, but at heart he's all you. He's my little Watson, my little blue-eyed Danny. The happiest I've ever been has been raising our son together. Tell him how much I love him? I need him to know how much his Daddy loved him. I've always been one for honesty between parents and children, especially with Danny, but maybe in this instance you could leave out the details? You don't need to tell him I'm dead, tell him I'm in a different world or in heaven or whatever people tell children these days._

_I'm going to miss you so much. Do you miss people when you die? I suppose not. It seems impossible not to miss you though, John. It seems impossible to imagine a world in which we aren't together and I'm not missing you. I'm sorry I had to leave. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

_Please don't blame yourself, love. None of this is your fault. Not our fight, not me going to Switzerland, not my death, not anything. This was all my doing and I wish I could just stop it now. I wish I could come home to you and hold you until all of the evil in the world goes away. This man needs to be stopped, though. I'm the only one who can do it. I wish I weren't._

_Mycroft is asking to me hurry up as our helicopter has nearly landed at the top of the falls. It's quite beautiful here – do you like waterfalls, John? There's so much I've never asked you about yourself. Anyway, I suppose this is goodbye. Goodbye my love. Give all the love you have to Danny and don't grieve me for too long._

_Love always and forever my dear John._

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock_

It took John five times to read the whole letter. He thumbed the dried teardrops over Danny's name on the first page. Sherlock had been crying when he'd written it, he'd known the risks and yet he'd gone anyway.

John grabbed the closet object and, with an agonised cry, hurtled it across the room. Too late he realised it was Sherlock's favourite mug and gasped as it shattered against the opposite wall.

"NO!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the room. He scrambled to his knees and hurried to the splintered remains of the mug, desperately trying to piece them back together. It proved impossible, most pieces now crumbled into sharp slivers. John took a handful of what was left of Sherlock's favourite mug and gripped them tightly in his hand, wincing as they dug into his palm and drew blood.

"Why?" he sobbed, throwing the pieces back into the corner and pulled his knees to his chest, pressing his cheek into the wood of the floor. "We were going to grow old together you bastard. You promised. You promised we would do this together!" John kept mumbling, his words soon becoming unintelligible.

Hours passed and John had managed to pull himself into his armchair, feet pressed together as he stared unseeing at Sherlock's chair opposite. He barely stirred when his phone began to ring. Not until the ringing became incessant did he finally pull it out of his pocket, seeing that it was Harry.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, John, it's me," Harry replied. "John…I'm so sorry about Sherlock. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I don't what to do, Harry," John croaked, his throat raw from crying.

"John, where are you?"

"Home."

"Baker Street? Okay. Mycroft said he had called Mrs Hudson earlier. John, you know I love looking after Danny, but he's asking after you. I didn't know what to tell him so I said you were on a work trip. That's why I'm calling, otherwise I'd leave you to…um, well leave you alone. Danny wants to say goodnight."

John looked at his watch. It was indeed Danny's bedtime. "I…"

"John, you don't have to. I can tell Danny that you're busy or you don't have your phone."

"No, I want to talk to him," John said, clearing his throat. "Put him on."

"Okay," Harry said quietly. "I really am sorry, John. He's here now, give me a second."

"Hi Dadda!" Danny screamed into the phone.

"Hey there, Dan," John said cheerfully, forcing the pain out of his voice for the sake of his son.

"I miss you, Dadda," Danny said.

"I know, bub, I miss you too."

"You and Daddy having fun at work?" Danny asked. John felt his voice catch in his throat. Of course Danny would think Sherlock was with him – his Dads worked together and that was all he knew.

"Yep," John croaked, clearing his throat. "We're okay."

"Home soon?"

"I won't be too long Danny," John told him. "I miss you."

"Goodnight, Dadda."

"Goodnight beautiful boy." John heard the phone click before he had pulled it away from his ear. He let his arm drop back onto the armrest, the phone falling from his loose fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn't know how long it took to grieve someone you love, but it didn't seem possible for this incredible pain to ever leave him. How was he meant to tell Danny? How was he meant to go back to his son like nothing had happened and raise him alone? How was he supposed to live without Sherlock?

Even breathing felt like an intense effort, each breath triggering the painful clenching of his chest as he was reminded that Sherlock was gone. John stood, stumbling to the kitchen and grabbing a kitchen towel to wrap around his bleeding palm from where the broken mug had cut him earlier. He made his way to the couch and collapsed facedown onto the cushions, clenching his fist until the material bunched up and dug into the deep cuts, sharp jolts of pain shooting up his arm.

"Why did you leave me?" John whispered, voice muffled by the pillow his face was buried into. "Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?" John repeated the word like a mantra until he was yet again reduced to gut wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. It was like this that he slipped back into a deep slumber.

* * *

John woke long before he opened his eyes. His throat was raw and his eyes were sealed together from the sleep and tears that had gathered at the corners. He turned his head, pushing away from the pillows to take a deep breath of air. He wiped at his eyes, finally blinking until the room came into focus. He wasn't alone. There was a man sitting opposite him in his chair, silently sipping tea.

"Mycroft," John mumbled, but no sound came out. He coughed, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch and trying to sit up, but his head spun and he fell back onto the couch. It was only then he noticed the small pool of blood on the floor next to the couch. He raised his injured hand to see the kitchen towel soaked in his own blood.

"You'd better shower, John," Mycroft spoke quietly. "It seems your nightmares got the better of you last night." John looked down at himself to see bloody handprints over his shirt from where he'd clenched his hand there in his sleep. "First, though, let me see what you've done to that hand."

John's mind was fuzzy. He didn't even bother to protest as Mycroft moved to sit on the edge of the couch beside John and help the doctor upright. John groaned, his head drooping onto Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft untied the towel from John's hand and surveyed the damage.

"Tell me this wasn't intentional," Mycroft said, eying the long cuts along John's palm up to his wrist. John shook his head, nodding to the shards of china in the corner of the room. Then Mycroft was gone, only to return minutes later with a bowl of warm water and bandages. "I found your doctor supplies, I hope that's all right with you." John shrugged nonchalantly as his head lolled onto the back of the couch. He barely noticed Mycroft cleaning and bandaging his hand and looked up in surprise as the man pulled him to his feet.

"It seems that a shower won't be all that practical with you in this state," Mycroft sighed as John fell against him. Mycroft half-carried John to his bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed. John pulled off his ruined shirt and slipped a clean one over his head, frowning when Mycroft chose one of Sherlock's old sleeping shirts. Mycroft moved to kneel in front of the doctor, lifting his eyes to meet his eye line.

"John, you haven't lost enough blood to warrant concern," Mycroft explained. "You're obviously light-headed. When did you last eat? Drink?" John shrugged, his eyes drooping. "I'm going to get you a cup of tea, make you something to eat."

When Mycroft left, John fell back into the bed he'd once shared with Sherlock. He pulled the covers over himself and nuzzled into Sherlock's pillow. By the time Mycroft returned with a cup of tea and some slightly burnt toast John was once again asleep.

He'd promised his brother one thing, and that was to look after John and Danny. Mycroft dragged a chair from the living room to the bedroom and sat, eyes on the only person in the world who had been able to teach his brother how to love. He'd protect John, that was for certain, even if it meant protecting the doctor from his own harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Any mistakes are my own.


	7. Chapter 7

John wandered into the living room several hours later to find Mycroft sitting on his armchair, absentmindedly twirling his umbrella.

"Good, you're awake," Mycroft said. John, feeling slightly better than he had before, stopped to look at the older man.

"Did you know?" the doctor asked softly. "Did you…know how this was going to end?" John knew it was a cruel question, Mycroft must be grieving as well, but he couldn't stop the nagging at the back of his mind.

"John," Mycroft said, resting his umbrella against the chair and looking up to analyse the doctor.

"No!" John yelled, throwing his hands up. "No! Don't you dare observe me! Stop deducing me! Did you have anything to do with Sherlock's death?"

There was a long silence before Mycroft finally spoke, his voice wavering slightly. "I didn't know it was going to come to this."

John felt himself shaking with rage.  _Don't punch Mycroft don't punch Mycroft_  was running in a loop in his head. His fists clenched at his sides.

"You just let him go!" John yelled, stepping forward. "He knew he was risking his life and yet he just left! He just…he left me." John squeezed his eyes shut, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "He knew that it was going to come to this. What did you tell him?"

"I told him of the case," Mycroft explained. "I told him of the risks, told him that people would die if Moriarty wasn't stopped. I told him…I told him that there was no other man for the job."

"Get out," John whispered, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Just leave. I need to be alone."

"No," Mycroft replied, standing up. "I'm staying until you eat and then I'm putting you in cab to go and have your hand stitched up at the surgery."

John looked at Mycroft defiantly. Mycroft thought for a moment that John was going to punch him and really he wouldn't blame him if he did, but the doctor just watched the older man, eyes hooded with guilt. Without a word John turned and walked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft listened for the run of the water before heading back to the kitchen to make the doctor something to eat.

John showered quickly, dressed and ate the toast that Mycroft handed to him. They drank their tea in silence before Mycroft stood once again.

"Let's go to the surgery," Mycroft said. John followed him to the door, grabbing his coat from the hallstand and slipping it over his shoulders before stepping out onto the street. They were almost barrelled over as a man in a grey hoodie and jeans jogged past them. Mycroft ushered John into a cab before sliding into his own car.

_He looks okay – SH_

_He's not. – MH_

_Explain. – SH_

_You were careless. John nearly saw your face. – MH_

_Tell me that he's okay. – SH_

_He's not okay, Sherlock. I found him this morning barely conscious. - MH_

_And you just let him in a cab by himself? Where did you send him? – SH_

_To the surgery to have his hand stitched up. He cut it smashing your favourite mug. Don't worry, I have a man following him to ensure his safety. – MH_

_And Danny? – SH_

_My surveillance suggests he misses his fathers. – MH_

_Will you visit him? – SH_

_Only if you want me to. – MH_

_He always enjoyed your company. – SH_

_I'll go around this afternoon. Stay safe, little brother. – MH_

Mycroft sat back heavily in the seat of his car, waving a hand to let the driver know that he was ready to go.

John returned to the flat after lunchtime, his hand stitched and bandaged and his head throbbing. Sarah had wanted to talk. She's wanted to say she was sorry and she'd wanted to hug him in condolence. Then the rest of the staff realised he was there and they all wanted to say that they were sorry for his loss.

He collapsed back into his armchair and let his head fall into his hands. He pulled out his phone and thumbed the keys before typing a message.

_Please come home. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. – J_

_Just come home. I need you. – J_

John waited two hours for a response before he finally tucked his phone back into his pocket.

On the third day John went to Harry's. Not only because he was desperate to see Danny, but because the funeral would be held the day after and he wanted to explain to his son before they went to the cemetery for the service.

Harry had been more than surprised to see John turn up at her doorstep, ushering him in and stopping him in the hallway, out of sight of the lounge room where he knew Danny most probably was. John knew he looked horrible, there was no escaping that. Since the first night with Mycroft in the flat he'd barely slept, kept forgetting to eat and hadn't shaved.

Harry pulled him into a strong hug. "Oh, John," she whispered against his shoulder. She pulled back and held him at an arms length, looking down to see he was leaning heavily to his right. "Your limp's back."

Honestly, John hadn't noticed. He'd been more focussed on keeping up a smile for Danny as he caught the cab there, he hadn't even considered the twinges of pain up his left thigh.

"John, are you sure you want to see Danny?" she asked, knowing exactly why he was there. "You don't look great."

"He's my son, Harry," John sighed. "He lives with me. A bit of stubble and dark eyes aren't going to scare him." It was then that Harry saw his bandaged hand.

"John…"

"I broke a mug," he shrugged. "Mycroft was there, made sure I got it stitched up."

"Okay, come in then," Harry said quietly. The second John was in sight of the lounge room Danny's eyes shot to him and there was light in John's world again. Danny's face lit up, his eyes sparkling with undisguised happiness.

"DADDA!" the little boy yelled, jumping to his feet and throwing himself at John's legs. John bent down and engulfed Danny in arms, kneeling so that the boy could nuzzle into his shoulder.

"Danny," John breathed, sighing the nickname that Sherlock had given his son. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, Dadda," Danny said. "Is Daddy at home? When are we going home?"

John gently pulled back and looked at the boy. "I need to talk to you about Daddy, baby boy."

John picked Danny up and took him to the spare bedroom he had been sleeping in before he'd heard about Sherlock. He sat them down in the middle of the double bed, tipping Danny's head up to face him.

"Danny…" John began, stopping to regain himself. "Dan, Daddy was working last week. He went away to work. There was an…accident. Daddy got hurt."

Bright blue eyes looked up at John, concern etched onto the young boy's features.

"Hurt?" he mumbled quietly.

"Yeah, buddy, Daddy got hurt. There's a place for people who get really hurt, bud, it's called Heaven." John had never been particularly religious. His family had never taken him to church as a child and living with Sherlock had cemented his belief in the power of the natural over the faith in the supernatural. Despite all this, though, he didn't know how to explain death to his two-year old without including some sort of higher power.

"Did, did Daddy go to Heaven?" Danny asked softly.

"Yeah, he did," John finally replied, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Can he come back to see us?"

"No, no he can't," John realised he probably wasn't explaining this as best as he could. He took Danny into his arms and pulled him to his chest. "Daddy died, Danny. He can't come back to visit us." John felt Danny begin to shake, an unrestrained sob escaping from his lips.

"Like mummy," Danny cried. "Cause he doesn't love me." John gasped, holding Danny tighter to him.

"No, no, no," John said firmly, pulling back to look into his son's eyes. "Your mummy loved you so much, Dan. She loved you with all of her heart and Daddy did too." John pulled Danny back into his arms and lay down beside him, cradling the boy to his chest. "He loves you so much. He still does. Just because he's gone doesn't mean his love is. It's still here." John was crying now, tears falling freely as he whispered to his son. Eventually Danny fell asleep, comforted by his father's strong arms around him. John watched him, keeping his eyes wide open – dreading the nightmares that were inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. Jess x


	8. Chapter 8

The day of the funeral John took Danny back to 221B only to find that someone had cleaned up the shattered remains of the mug – most likely Mycroft or Mrs Hudson. He carried Danny to the bedroom and let the boy play with Wabbit in the middle of the king-size bed while he dressed in a tailored black suit – Sherlock's favourite. He changed Danny before dressing him in a matching miniature outfit that Sherlock had bought their son only months before when the three of them went out to dinner for John's birthday.

John bent down, looking his son in the eyes as he straightened the small tie.

"Are you okay, Danny?" he asked softly. Danny nodded, absentmindedly reaching up to run a hand through his own curls. John knew enough of the boy and himself to know that it was a nervous gesture.

"We're going to say goodbye to Daddy today," John whispered, sitting down in front of the boy and taking his tiny hands in his own.

"Do you miss him?" the doctor asked. He didn't know how to deal with a toddler's grief, did they even grieve the same? He wasn't even sure Danny understood that Sherlock was gone for good.

"Yes," Danny replied quietly. "Do you miss him Dadda?" The boy reached up to place his palm on John's cheek. John briefly looked away, collecting himself.

"I do, Dan. I miss him so much."

"Don't be sad," Danny said, cupping his dad's face in both of his tiny hands. "I love you, Dadda."

"I love you too, bub," John whispered, surprised by Danny's affection. "Are you ready to go?"

John stood and pulled Danny up onto his hip. It was such a familiar motion now that they reached for each other easily, the boy's arms slipping over John's shoulders to hold himself up.

"Let's go," Danny instructed, reaching up to grab John's tie.

The two of them shared a cab with Mrs Hudson, sitting in silence while she chattered about what a good man Sherlock had been, every so often bringing a handkerchief up to her mouth and sobbing quietly.

Once at the cemetery John held Danny close to his chest, fearing that the vast amount of people might overwhelm the boy. At the sight of Mycroft, however, there was no way to keep him in his arms. Danny wriggled until John set him on the ground and ran to Sherlock's older brother.

"Uncle Mykie!" he yelled, colliding with Mycroft's legs. Mycroft bent down to pick up his nephew.

"Mycroft," the politician corrected light-heartedly. John stood back, scowling slightly. He hadn't forgiven Mycroft for his part in Sherlock's death. Mycroft gently handed Danny back to John.

"I am sorry, John," he stressed. "For everything. I hope you know that."

"I do, but it doesn't change anything." John held Danny closer and made his way over to the site of the service. Sherlock had wanted to be cremated so there was only a headstone, the reflective black marble standing alone at the foot of a single tree. John allowed himself to be shown to a seat in the front row, nodding politely as people continued to come up and tell him how sorry they were for his loss.

When the service started John turned Danny so that his legs were either side of John's and tucked his head in against his shoulder, one hand resting on his blonde curls. He was the only one who noticed the silent sobs coming from the boy and he tucked his head against his son's, whispering soothing nonsense until Danny clutched John's shirt tighter and his sobs were reduced to small hiccups.

People left quickly afterward, most approaching John to say a quick goodbye and the ones who didn't simply nodded in his general direction, showing their companions Sherlock Holmes' grieving widow and son. Mycroft came to say goodbye, but didn't bother with words this time. He simply rested a hand on John's shoulder and sighed sadly before leaving. Lestrade and other various members of the force stopped for longer, making painful small talk.

Eventually John and Danny were left alone, sitting in front of Sherlock's gravestone while the chairs were packed up around them. John was grateful that Danny sat quietly, cradling Wabbit to his chest and resting his head against the cold marble. John just sat cross-legged facing Sherlock, staring at the dirt in front of him. He gestured at Danny to come and sit next to him and Danny did, letting his dad remove his tie and put it into his pants pocket, along with his own. John wrapped an arm around his boy and pulled him closer against his side, his head falling forward with the weight of his grief.

"It's all going to be okay," John whispered. "We're going to be okay. We can do this." Danny rested fully against him.

"It's okay Dadda," the boy whispered, his voice surprisingly even for what he'd been through. John brought his free hand up to cover his eyes as he began to shake with silent sobs. Before he knew it Danny was crawling into his lap, nudging his head up under John's chin and wrapping his arms around his Dad.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Dan," John said, standing up and taking one of Danny's hands in his own. "Let's go home."

* * *

From afar Sherlock Holmes watched. He watched as his funeral service took place, Mycroft and Lestrade making brief speeches that seemed to move the crowd to tears. Mostly, though, he watched John. He watched as John tucked Danny close to him and tucked his face into those beautiful blonde curls, not looking up for the remainder of the service. Danny was crying, he realised. His son was crying and there was nothing to do to comfort him.

Sherlock reached out to grip the tree next to him to stabilise himself. He couldn't look away from the two most important people in his life. He didn't look away even as the service ended and people left and he nearly cried out when John collapsed against the marble tombstone, Danny sitting silently next to him. John turned to face the stone, wrapping an arm around his son. Before long John was standing and pulling Danny to his feet.

Every muscle in his body itched with anticipation as he kept himself from running to John and Danny's retreating forms. All he could think of was how easy it would be to run to them and grasp Danny's free hand, how easy it would be to make them a family again.

And then it hit him. Why he was doing all of this. He would give everything to keep them safe and there was no other option.


	9. Chapter 9

"Danny keeps asking after you," John admitted quietly to Sherlock's gravestone. It was a cold day. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. "He wants to know if you left us because you don't love us anymore. I'm having trouble getting him to eat complete meals. That was always…" John paused, leaning forward to rest his head against the cold marble. Sitting cross-legged it was an uncomfortable position but John didn't care.

"That was always what you were good at. Harry is looking after him today. He wanted to go to the zoo and I wanted to visit you so… here I am." John sat back on his heels, eyes focussing on the gold lettering of the words 'SHERLOCK HOLMES'.

"I'm so lonely, Sherlock. Without you I don't know how to be myself again. I'm trying to keep upbeat for Danny, but he notices when I'm down. I have bad days. Most nights I sleep on the couch…who am I kidding? I haven't slept in our bed since you left. Some nights Danny falls asleep on my chest and I don't move him. It seems to soothe him to sleep. Come back, Sherlock. If not for me, for Danny. He needs at least one of us and without you I'm no longer me."

"Mycroft keeps coming over. I kicked him out the first few times, but he kept coming so I gave up. He plays with Danny mostly and sometimes makes us dinner. Mrs Hudson cleans as usual, but she won't stop sniffling whenever she comes by one of your things. I wish she wouldn't. Lestrade occasionally stops by at nights after work and sits with me when I've put Danny to sleep (in our room on those nights). We talk. We try not to talk about you but after a few beers it always comes back to that. He sits in my chair and I usually fall asleep on the couch. He's never there when I wake up."

"Honestly, Sherlock, without Danny I don't know how I'd be doing this. He's the only one keeping me sane and yet everyone keeps insisting on looking after him for me, or taking him away on day trips. I try to tell them that he's fine, but they don't listen. He's his same old self, I don't know if he's still grieving. It's hard to tell if he really knows what's going on at all. Every so often he looks up at me and asks if I miss you or how I think you're doing in heaven. It always catches me off-guard."

"I guess I should bring him by to see you. I think he'd like that. I've taped a photo of you to the bars of his cot and he always falls asleep facing it. I've got to get back. It's starting to get dark. I'll bring Danny soon. I miss you, Sherlock."

John stood, resting one hand on the marble and turning to walk away. Something stopped him, though, and he spun back around.

"There's just one more thing, mate. One more thing, just one more miracle, Sherlock - for me. Don't be… _dead_. Would you do that? Just for me?" John whispered, voice breaking as he tried to hold himself together. "Just stop it. Stop this." His head fell forward as he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, but it only caused more tears to fall. He lifted a hand up to try to wipe them away as his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

It took only a moment for John to regain himself and pull his shoulder back, straightening his spine as his army training kicked in and he tried to stay distant. Clicking his heals together he held his head up high, sniffed back the tears that still threatened to fall and turning on his heel, walking stiffly out of the cemetery.

* * *

"Dadda! Dadda!" John heard Danny yell from the living room. He spun around from the kettle, forgetting he was holding a hot cup of tea and burning his hand as the hot liquid sloshed over the side.

"Ah!" he gasped, putting the cup back down on the bench.

"DADDA!" Danny yelled again. John tried to ignore the burn of his hand and rushed to see Danny holding a piece of paper.

"What is it, bub?" he asked, crouching down on the rug and brushing away the crayons scattered over the floor. "Are you okay?"

"I drew you a picture!" his son grinned. John sighed.

"It's you and me and Daddy." John looked at the picture. Really, it was a good drawing for a child his age, but even his own father found it hard to decipher what it was. "That's you," Danny explained, pointing to a circle with arms and legs and eyes. "And that's me," a smaller circle. "And that's Daddy."

John fell back onto his heels as he saw what Danny was pointing at. He'd drawn a solid black rectangle with yellow scribbles over the front. It was Sherlock's grave. John coughed, trying to disguise his emotion, but it came out as a strained gasp.

He didn't know what to say. What was there to say? Is that all Danny thought of Sherlock now, just a lifeless black stone?

"Dadda?" Danny murmured, moving to stand in front of his father, resting his hands on John's knees. "I'm sorry, I'll draw 'nother one."

John wasn't paying attention. His mind was far away, running through all the times he'd seen Sherlock with Danny, how the detective had all but given up on cases in order to care for their son. Would Danny even remember him when he was older? Would he remember the father who loved him and doted on him and almost completely changed his personality to suit the changing needs of his two-year old?

The sudden howling coming from in front of him interrupted his thoughts. "DADDA! I'M SORRY!"

John collapsed onto the rug, taking Danny into his arms.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I like your picture, I do. You did a great job. I love you, Dan."

Danny just kept crying, clinging to his dad and sniffling loudly, the drawing lying forgotten on the floor.

"Good morning, Watsons," Mycroft announced as he walked through the door, only to stop at the scene before him. "Oh, sorry, is it a bad time?"

John stood, Danny still in his arms and walked to the couch, still cooing at his son and trying to calm him. Mycroft took a seat on John's armchair; Sherlock's remaining permanently empty.

"Good morning, Mycroft," John sighed. There was no mistaking the tears on John's face, the drawing still on the floor. It didn't take a Holmes to deduce what had happened.

"Tea?" Mycroft asked, only to receive a stiff nod from John. "I see you have your hands full."

"It's okay, Danny, it's okay," John kept repeating. Danny slowly drifted to sleep, having not slept much the night before. If Danny didn't sleep, John didn't sleep and the doctor felt himself tempted to put his son back in his cot so he could crawl up on the couch. Mycroft returned and put the two cups of tea down on the table in front of him, taking in the sight of John cradling his boy.

"Are you all right, John?" the older man asked. John narrowed his eyes, looking up at Sherlock's older brother. He stood, hitching Danny higher in his arms and taking him to his cot to let him sleep before returning to the couch.

"What'd you think, Mycroft?" John questioned.

"I think you're struggling," Mycroft answered. "Danny's a well-behaved child, but even that's hard to deal with when you're grieving. Add that to no sleep and the fact that you're no longer working to pay the bills and it would stress anyone."

"Why did you even come here? To rub it in? To make it hurt more? I'm doing my best! I'm  _trying_  here! Why doesn't anyone understand how hard I'm trying to keep it together?"

"I do understand, John and I want to help you."

Before John could bite back a reply Harry was at the door with Mrs Hudson who'd clearly let her in to the flat.

"John!" Harry smiled, stepping into the room as John and Mycroft both stood. John let his sister hug him before stepping back.

"Harriet," Mycroft nodded in greeting.

"John, I was wondering if you wanted some time alone, I could take Danny for a couple of days?" Harry asked sincerely.

"No!" John roared and it seemed that once he started he couldn't stop. "Enough! Why don't you people get that I need time alone with him? He's the only thing keeping me okay at the moment and you people keep taking him away! I know you're worried, but I  _need_ him! I  _need_  him here with me. We might not be the most functional two, but we look after each other. He keeps me strong, he's the only reason I haven't completely broken down yet so please just please don't take him away." John was crying now, his words hoarse as he tried to steady his voice. "I get that you're trying to help and you've been great, but don't take him. Let him stay here, let me hold him and care for him."

"John, we're just trying to lend a hand," Mrs Hudson interrupted quietly.

"I know you are and it helps that you clean and it helps that Mycroft cooks and Harry buys groceries, but I  _need_ Danny," he choked. "It's hell living here without…without  _him_ let alone sleeping another night without my baby in my arms."

"I'm sorry, John," Harry whispered. "If I'd known this is how you feel…"

"It doesn't matter," John dismissed. "You know now. Just go, leave us alone."

Mycroft nodded, moving to the cot to place a gentle kiss on Danny's forehead before patting John on the shoulder and leaving without a word. Harry and Mrs Hudson were quick to follow.

Once they'd left John took Danny back into his arms and, not even thinking, walked to his and Sherlock's bedroom. The bed was made, but still crinkled from where the detective had slept on it the night before he'd left for Switzerland. The room still smelled of him. Ignoring this, John walked to his side of the bed and crawled under the blankets with Danny, tucking his head into his son's thick curls and falling to sleep almost instantly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note - 'Daddy' is meant to be referring to Sherlock and 'Dadda' is meant to be John - any mistakes or inconstancies with this are my own mistakes

"Where're we going?" Danny asked, jumping on the bed while John got dressed.

"Uh, I was thinking we'd go to the park," John replied as he pulled a thick jumper over his shirt. "Maybe see the ducks? We're going to spend a while just the two of us."

"Cause you yelled at ev'ryone?"

"No, I yelled at everyone  _so_  we could spend some time together," John said defiantly, pulling a shirt over his son's head. Danny wriggled while John changed and dressed him, giggling wildly.

"Not 'sposed to yell at people," Danny chuckled.

"I know, I shouldn't have, but now I get to spend all this time with you so it's okay in the end."

"Can we see Daddy?" the boy asked, allowing his dad to pull him to his feet and slip a coat over his shoulders.

"Yeah, Dan, we can," John said. "Do you want to go after lunch? We can see the ducks first and then later see Daddy." Danny nodded enthusiastically and reached up to grab onto his dad.

An hour later John found himself sitting on a bench next to Danny at the park, one arm draped behind his son's back. He watched as the boy giggled happily as he threw bread to the ducks.

"Dadda, look! Ahh it's gonna come to us!" Danny chuckled, watching one duck that was eagerly waddling closer. He held out one hand only to have John pull him back on the bench.

"It might bite you," the doctor warned, taking Danny's hand in his own.

"No!" Danny objected. "I want to pat it!"

The duck wandered ever closer, quacking and nodding happily, but John kept a firm grip on his son's hand despite the squirming coming from the boy.

"No, Dan," John said firmly, handing Danny another piece of bread. "Just feed it, he'll like the bread more than your finger." His son agreed with a laugh, throwing several more pieces of bread out onto the grass before jumping off the bench.

"Let's go and tell Daddy about the ducks," Danny said decidedly, reaching a hand out for his father to take. John smiled broadly, grasping the tiny hand in his own and skipping slightly causing Danny to laugh again and the ducks to scatter.

"Let's skip!" Danny announced. John, ignoring the sharp pains coming from his left thigh, nodded in agreement. So, hand in hand, father and son skipped from the park.

By the time they got to the cemetery Danny was on John's shoulders, clutching his dad's hands and giggling uncontrollably at the commentary John was giving.

"And then the Watson's make their way through the gates," John said, lowering his voice to that of a sports commentator. "Uncle Mykie and Uncle Greg follow closely behind riding their unicorn but they are no match compared to the mighty Dad and Danny Watson who fly closer and closer to the finish line and, alas! It's the Watson's who take out the championship!"

Danny was in hysterics now, unable to stop laughing as John lifted him onto one shoulder and cheered wildly. By now they were nearing Sherlock's grave and John put Danny down, letting him run to his Daddy.

"Daddy!" the boy yelled, stopping just short of Sherlock's grave and reaching out a hand to rest on the cold marble. "Me and Dadda won."

"Hey, love," John greeted, resting his hand over Danny's. They sat together, Danny tucking himself close to his father.

"Tell Daddy what we've been doing," John whispered in Danny's ear.

"We went to the park!" Danny said loudly. "And fed the ducks and one was my friend by I couldn't pat it cause Dadda said no."

"It was getting too close," John explained to Sherlock. "You remember the time we went to the park together and that duck bit you? I didn't think you would want the same for your son."

"It was my friend," Danny rebutted, nudging his dad. "Daddy, the duck was my friend and Dadda said I can't pat it."

"So, what else have we been up to, Danny?"

"Uncle Mykie came over and then Aunty Harry and then Dadda yelled at ev'ryone," Danny explained. "So now we get to go to the park and come and see you."

"While I don't think you'll mind that I yelled at your brother," John began. "I probably shouldn't have. I just need some time alone with Danny. Mycroft's been good, really. He's been teaching Danny to read. Well, trying to teach him to read. I don't know how much success he's having."

"Writed my name," Danny mumbled.

"That's right, bud!" John grinned, patting his son on the shoulder. "Yeah, Uncle Mykie taught you to write your name didn't he? He did, Sherlock, you should have seen it! You would be so proud! I should bring it to show you…"

"Dadda says we can go on a trip," Danny said.

"Yep, we're going to go to Sussex on a holiday. I haven't been working, stopped going to the surgery. I thought that we might as well get away from London for a bit. My limp's back so I'm going to need to dig up my cane soon, not sure where that went."

"We miss you, Daddy!" Danny suddenly interrupted.

"Yeah, we do," John agreed.

"Dadda misses you a lot," Danny continued. "He gets sad when he's sleeping and says your name."

"What?" John probed, turning to face his son.

"You say Sherwock and cry sometimes," Danny shrugged, stumbling over his Daddy's name.

"Sorry, Dan, I didn't know." Of course John had known that he'd been having nightmares, but they weren't at all as bad when he fell asleep holding Danny. Part of the reason he was trying to get Danny to sleep back in his cot was that he knew the nightmares were returning and didn't want to scare the boy.

"Anyway," John finally spoke after a long pause. "We've been doing okay apart from that. Dan's right, we miss you. We've had our troubles, but we're getting there. We were going to go to Angelo's tonight, but Danny's getting a little sleepy." As if on cue Danny's head sagged against John's arm. "So we may go tomorrow night for a quick dinner. I'm not so good at enforcing proper sleeping patterns. Who knew that you'd be the parent strictest on sleeping and eating?"

John pulled Danny onto his lap and the boy relaxed, letting his head droop on his dad's shoulder. "We can stay a while though," John said, imagining Sherlock begging for just a little while longer with his partner and son. "It's nice just being with you again."

John closed his eyes, resting his chin on Danny's head and gently rubbing his back. He sat in silence, talking no longer needed. Little did the doctor know, Sherlock himself stood only tens of metres away, hidden in the shadows of a crypt. The detective held one hand to the earpiece in his left ear, begging John to tell him more. Finally he realised that the doctor didn't have anything else to tell and he discreetly made his way from the cemetery.

_He seems okay this afternoon – SH_

_Yes, I suspect his outburst yesterday was isolated. – MH_

_You'll go back though? Let me know he's okay while I'm away this week? – SH_

_Of course. Your son still hasn't mastered the alphabet. – MH_

_All the gratitude, brother, all of it. – SH_

_Glad I could be of some use. - MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone notice the Martin Freeman reference? If you did, let me know! I know this one is short but the next one is much longer. x


	11. Chapter 11

"I think you and Danny should see a psychologist."

"You…what?" John sat up straight, still holding the cup of tea Mycroft had made him. The politician sat back in the armchair and crossed one knee over the other. Mycroft had spent the two hours rotating between playing with Danny and teaching him the alphabet – that is until the boy fell asleep on his ABC poster and had to be put in his cot for his afternoon nap.

"I think it would be best if you got some help," Mycroft explained calmly. "Not just you, but Danny as well. I know you're both doing okay, but it's easier talking it through. You need someone to listen."

"Danny listens," John said, only realising how pathetic he sounded as he watched Mycroft's eyebrows rise.

"John, you need an  _adult_  to talk to. You had a therapist before you met my brother, didn't you?"

"Yes, I had PTSD when I returned from Afghanistan. Nightmares, the limp – I wasn't in a great place then. But after I met…after I moved into 221B that all stopped."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, looking pointedly at the cane resting against the couch next to John's left leg. He brought his hands together beneath his chin, a movement in which he was unconsciously replicating his younger brother.

"John, I only want what's best for you and my nephew. I have contacts; I can find you a good psychologist. Just think about it, at least think about having Danny see someone."

"No, I'd want to go with him, that is if he went to see someone," John said quietly.

"It's been almost three months," Mycroft replied, one hand moving to rest on the handle of his umbrella. "It's time to begin to move on."

"I…" John cringed as his voice hitched with emotion. "I don't know how. Sher- _he_  was everything. Before him I was nothing and then he came along and…" The doctor's head fell into his hands. Mycroft sat patiently while John regained himself enough to sit up in his chair.

"That's why I think you should see someone. Your life has changed dramatically and if you and Danny are able to talk about that together then you can move on, start to find happiness again."

"How is that possible without Sherlock?" John whispered, almost hoping the politician didn't hear him.

"You've got Danny, you've still got him."

"I know. He's such a good kid, sometimes I just feel like I'm letting him down."

"You shouldn't feel ashamed of grieving. Feeling emotion is human."

" _He_  didn't think so, neither do you," John pointed out.

"He didn't think so until he met you, John. I'm still…undecided."

"He said I was the exception to his rule."

"You were."

"I still don't know why he chose me."

"I rarely understood the actions of my younger brother. Although, I did understood him ending up with you. You're a good man, John. Some may say that you two 'completed each other'."

"When does it stop hurting?" John asked after a long silence.

"I don't think it ever really does," Mycroft replied. "I've always said that love is a disadvantage. Now look at us. Anyway, I best be going. I'll leave the information about the psychologists on the kitchen table. At least think about it, John."

John nodded, shaking the politician's hand and watching him leave. He busied himself cleaning up the kitchen and packing away Danny's toys, pointedly avoiding looking at the small stack of paper and business cards Mycroft had left. The worst part of it all was that he suspected Mycroft was right.

He felt a rush of determination course through him and before he knew what he was doing he was limping up the stairs towards his old bedroom, unlocking the door and stepping inside. It was horribly musky, the faint scent of hydrochloric acid tinting the dusty air. Cardboard boxes full of Sherlock's old experiments were piled neatly against one wall, each precisely labelled with the equipment inside. John's old bed was in the middle, headboard on the opposite wall, his old navy blue sheets still stretched over the mattress.

John was thrown back to that first night they were together, those first fleeting kisses as Sherlock had hesitantly pushed John up against his bedroom door.

" _I'm not good at this," Sherlock had whispered, pulling away nervously to rest his forehead against John's good shoulder as his own shoulders heaved with deep breaths. "I'm not good at_ feeling _, at caring for another's emotions." John had hummed sympathetically, clutching Sherlock closer to him. Eventually the doctor had pulled back, hooking a finger under Sherlock's chin and lifting his head so their eyes could meet._

_John uncertainly moved forward to press his lips to Sherlock's, sighing deeply when the detective pushed him harder against the door, their mouths opening together to deepen the kiss. The doctor reached up, pressing his palms to Sherlock's firm chest only to feel two large hands cup his hips, pulling him impossibly closer. John's head fell back with a clunk as it hit the wood behind, his mouth open as a moan escaped his lips._

" _Sherlock…" was the only word he was capable of uttering when the detective began to kiss his way down his neck, stopping to nip gently at his collarbone. "Sherlock, Sherlock."_

_Before John knew it they were both shirtless, stumbling back and falling onto the bed, a tangle of limbs as they fought for dominance. Sherlock raised himself over John, knees on either side of the smaller man's hips and hands pressed into the mattress framing John's face. The doctor propped himself up on his elbows, reaching up a hand to cup Sherlock's face. The detective leant into the touch, sighing contentedly and letting his eyes fall closed._

" _I think I'm falling in love with you," John had whispered, watching as the taller man's eyes flew open. Sherlock bent down to capture John's lips, teeth gently pulling at his lower lip as they parted._

" _Good," the detective whispered in reply before leaning down to reclaim the doctor's mouth once more._

John didn't realise he was sitting on the edge of the bed until he felt his hands gripping the soft, albeit dusty, covers. Would he ever feel passion like that again? Just in those first few hesitant kisses John had known – he'd known that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with that arrogant sleuth.

"You bastard," John whispered, chuckling sourly. "If I'd known you would leave me I would've tried harder not to fall in love with you."

With some difficulty due to his limp, John began to lug the boxes downstairs and into the hallway outside Mrs Hudson's flat. He then stripped the bed, neatly folding the sheets and putting them into an empty box along with the blankets and pillows. Finding his toolbox he quickly dismantled the bed before taking that too downstairs, struggling somewhat with the mattress but eventually managing to prop it up against the stairs.

Finally he rummaged through his old cupboard, boxing up the clothes he'd all but forgotten in the years he'd spent in Sherlock's room. Those boxes he took to Sherlock's room, leaving them next to his bed to be looked through later. He packed and cleaned until the only thing left in the room was the heavy old cupboard and a box next to it. Sherlock's handwriting read  _"Painting equipment"_. John felt himself smile as he put the box at the doorway and dragged the cupboard out so it was on the landing, leaving the room completely empty.

_I have a favour to ask. – John_

_Yes? – MH_

_There are several boxes in the hallway of 221B as well as a mattress and a bedframe. I need them gone. – John_

_Put in storage? – MH_

_Do whatever you like with them, as long as they're no longer here. – John_

_They'll be gone by the end of the day. – MH_

Reassured, John opened the last remaining box and spread the plastic sheeting over the carpet before heading back downstairs. Danny was standing in his cot, gripping the bars in his tiny hands and waiting patiently.

"Dadda!" he yelped happily as John plucked him up into his arms. "Where'd you go?"

"Just upstairs," John said, taking his son to his bedroom. He changed Danny before slipping one of his own old t-shirts over the boy's head.

"Too big!" Danny frowned, his nose wrinkling adorably as the shirt fell down to his ankles. John was reminded for a moment of a defiant Sherlock and that only caused him to smile wider.

"We're going to paint, Dan!" the doctor explained, lifting the boy back up. He carried him back upstairs and put him down in the doorway. "This is going to be your new room!"

"Just for me?" Danny asked, eyes wide as he looked up at his father.

"Yep! We're going to paint it, I know it's a bit dusty…" John stepped to the window and yanked it open, allowing a cool gust of fresh air to rush inside. "We can paint it blue like your old spot, and put all of your toys in here…we'll make it nice."

"Yey!" the boy yelled, jumping up and down.

"So you like it?"

"Yep!" Danny replied, a perfect replica of his dad as he leapt up into John's arms.

They spent the whole afternoon painting, Danny using the brightly coloured paint Sherlock had bought him months before and John using the light blue to paint the walls. John had to use a stepladder to reach the roof, almost calling out for Sherlock to come and help him before quickly stopping himself.

"Okay, Dadda?" Danny asked from his spot in the corner, where he was painting red circles over the blue John had already done.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John replied, recollecting himself before he began to paint again. It only took a few hours for them to paint all four walls – it never had been a big room.

Once they were finished, ignoring the banging downstairs from the removalists Mycroft had sent, John took Danny back into the living room and they ate fish fingers and chips while watching late afternoon cartoons. It was the first time since Sherlock's death that John had felt truly happy, laughing aloud as he and his son threw chips at each other before play wrestling on the couch and ending up entangled. Danny yawned loudly and let his head fall onto John's chest, holding onto his dad tightly and smiling when long warm arms came up to hold him close.

"Love you, Dadda," Danny whispered.

"Love you too, mate," John replied, kissing the boy on the forehead. "Sleep tight, Danny."

* * *

Over the next two weeks Harry, Molly, Mycroft and Lestrade came over to help do up Danny's new room. Without consulting John, Mycroft bought a kids bed - plain white with wooden slats on the side to keep Danny from falling out. It was still clearly meant for a child, but a step up from his cot. Lestrade helped move the cupboard back in and Harry painted it a rich red colour. Mrs Hudson bought a rainbow coloured rug for the room, ignoring Mycroft's chuckling when he saw the different coloured squares.

Finally it was ready for Danny to move in. The room didn't seem so small when the king-size bed was out and replaced by Danny's new tiny bed. The boy was so excited when he got to sleep in his new bed that he couldn't actually get to sleep and John had to read 3 story books before he finally nodded off.

"Thank you so much," John told Mycroft, Molly, Harry, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as he returned from Danny's bedroom.

The five of John's closest friends had made dinner and were sitting around the kitchen table chatting and laughing. Harry pulled out a chair next to her and John slipped into it.

"He's asleep?" Lestrade asked. John nodded with a smile.

"Took him a while, he was too excited," John chuckled. "I can't thank you all enough."

"Whatever we can do to help," Mycroft said politely.

"Relax, Mykie!" Lestrade insisted, clapping a hand on the politician's shoulder.

"Only Danny's allowed to call me that, Detective Inspector," Mycroft objected with a frown.

"Call me Greg," Lestrade replied with a grin. John laughed, sharing a knowing look with Harry.

They ate over glasses of wine, chatting openly about work and friends and life. Soon Mrs Hudson was insisting she go to bed and everyone began to leave. John walked his guests to the front door, watching as Harry hailed a cab and Molly began to walk home – she didn't live far away.

"Greg, did you want to share a cab?" she asked the DI. It was only then that John noticed the way Lestrade was leaning into Mycroft, their pinkie fingers subtly linked at their sides.

"No, that's fine," Lestrade replied. "Mycroft's driver is going to give me a lift home, right?" Mycroft nodded, smiling broadly at the older man. John had never seen Mycroft smile like that at anyone and felt a twinge of pain in his chest. That was the way Sherlock had looked at him.

"It's been lovely, John," Mycroft beamed, pulling the smaller man in for a quick hug before leading Lestrade to his black car behind Harry's cab. John waved goodbye, fighting the jealousy that threatened to engulf him. He knew that he should feel happy for his friends, but somehow just the knowledge that other people were able to move on while Sherlock was still gone nagged at him. How was Mycroft so okay with Sherlock's death?

Pushing aside these thoughts and trying to focus on the cheerful dinner they'd shared he made his way back up the stairs. He popped up to see Danny, checking that he was okay and turning on the monitor that Harry had bought so that John could hear him wake from downstairs. He ran a hand through his son's thick curls, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead before retreating back to his own bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a fluffy chapter to soothe all the sadness. If there's one thing I know about grief it's that seeing people move on and be happy after you've lost someone is the most painful part. Everything you do feels like a disgrace to their memory. When my uncle died I couldn't eat or sleep for days because all I could think was that those tasks were too normal, that things couldn't just go back to normal like nothing had happened. So I hope I captured that okay, with John feeling pain when seeing that Mycroft was able to be happy just months after Sherlock's death (but of course we know that Mycroft knows Sherlock's alive and okay). Thought I'd also include a cleaning spree which I often do when I don't know what to do with myself, whether I'm happy or sad.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd best put you out of your misery.

_The only thing John was aware of was Sherlock. Perfect, brilliant, intelligent Sherlock, gripping desperately to the doctor's hand as his body swayed precariously over the falls below._

" _Sherlock, hold on," John cried, chest cutting into the rocks below as he tried to get a firmer grip on the detective._

" _John," Sherlock whispered, eyes alight with fear and panic._

" _No, Sherlock, hold on!"_

" _Forgive me, John," the detective whispered, wrenching his arm out of John's grip and falling, falling down into the churning water below._

"NO!" John yelled, jolting awake. He blinked wildly, breathing heavily and trying to calm down when he realised it was a nightmare. He cursed himself for asking Mycroft the previous day how Sherlock had died. Now all he could think about was the love of his life falling to his death with that faceless villain Moriarty.

He dragged himself out of bed and wandered out to the kitchen, putting on the kettle before making his way up to Danny's room. The door was ajar and his son was fast asleep. Not wanting to wake him, John went back to the kitchen and made tea. It was still dark outside and the microwave flashed '3:00'. It wasn't unusual to John to wake up at unearthly hours now. Whether it was Danny waking him or his nightmares, sleep was becoming less and less familiar to the doctor.

He stepped out into the living room, mind set on curling up on the couch and drinking his tea in the darkness when he saw the figure standing in the doorway. He felt his legs go numb and his chest tighten as his eyes raked over the face lit up by the faint glow of the streetlights coming through the windows. The cup of tea fell from his hands, landing with a thud on the rug and spilling its contents over the floor.

John took a step forward, an arm reaching out to the figure. There was no mistaking the long coat, the scarf, those cheekbones.

"John," the figure whispered and the doctor was undone. A sob escaped his lips and he fell to his knees, collapsing in on himself. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, awkwardly taking John's shaking frame into his arms. "John, it's me, it's me."

"No, it can't be," John choked. "You can't be here. You left, you're gone."

The detective pulled John up so he was kneeling in from of him and took his face in his hands. "I'm alive, John, I'm okay."

"I'm dreaming," John sobbed. "You're not here, I'm dreaming."

"No, John! It's me, you're not dreaming, I had to fake my own death!" Sherlock insisted, begging John to understand. "He was going to kill you and Danny. I couldn't let him, I had to."

John reached up to run his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones, noting the new scar framing his left eye. "It's really you?" The detective nodded, tears forming as he took in his lover's broken form.

The doctor threw himself into Sherlock's arms, tucking his head against the thin shoulder and breathing in softly. He rose up onto his knees so he could scoot closer, straddling the taller man's thighs. With Sherlock sitting back on his heels in was an uncomfortable position to support John's weight but he didn't care.

"I'm going to punch you later," John whispered against Sherlock's neck. The detective nodded, holding his lover closer, revelling in the feel of their warm bodies so  _alive_ tucked together. Eventually they pulled away, Sherlock pulling the smaller man to his feet and walking them to the couch. They sat side by side, so many things unsaid.

"I'm angry," John finally said.

"I know," Sherlock replied, only to be interrupted by John.

"No, not angry," John continued. "Furious, I'm  _furious_  at you right now. Absolutely livid. But I won't hit you, or raise my voice because I don't want to wake Danny."

"Danny?" Sherlock murmured, his voice hitching. "Can I see him?" John could hear the desperation in the detective's voice and although he wanted to ask  _why_  and  _how_  he couldn't help but nod.

Sherlock followed John up the stairs to their son's room and stopped at the doorway.

"Please don't wake him up," John whispered. "I barely understand what's happening, we can explain to him in the morning."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, but he nodded nonetheless and gently nudged the door open. He stopped when he caught sight of his little boy. He ached to close the distance between them and take Danny into his arms. It had been so long. It'd been almost four months since he'd held his son. The realisation hit him and he gasped, softly closing the door and falling against the wall of the landing. He didn't realise he was crying until John wrapped his arms around him, holding him close.

"I've missed you two so much," the detective sobbed against John's shoulder. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I never wanted to leave you. I'm sorry." John pulled back, taking a larger hand in his own and leading Sherlock back downstairs and into their bedroom.

"Sit," John said and Sherlock did. "Explain." The doctor stood, arms crossed, listening while Sherlock explained everything from the case to his faked death to his time hunting down the last remaining members of Moriarty's organisation.

"And I finally found the last man, the one closest to Moriarty himself. I wanted to wait until morning to see you, but I just…couldn't," Sherlock concluded lamely.

"You hunted them?" John asked, voice measured and calm. "Killed them all?"

"Yes." Sherlock knew that John wouldn't think less of him.

"Did they hurt you?"

"Some of them," Sherlock replied quietly. The doctor stepped forward and ran his finger over the scar beside the detective's left eye.

John took one of Sherlock's hands and pulled him to his feet. Silently, he undressed the taller man. His fingers worked with the efficiency of the doctor he once was as he let the clothes fall to the detective's feet. He ran his hands over ever inch of his lover, noting new scars, analysing bruises and cuts. He worked meticulously from head to toe before standing back up. He eyed Sherlock's short ginger hair.

"You've lost weight," John finally said.

"So have you," Sherlock replied, unabashed by his nakedness.

"Your hair looks weird." To this the detective smiled, reaching up to run a hand over his hair.

They just stared at each other, neither would be able to say for how long. John was vaguely aware of the coldness of the room, his thin t-shirt and boxers doing little to shelter him from the crisp night air. Sherlock must be freezing. John stepped forward and rested his hands on the detective's hips, leaning closer to rest his forehead on the pale chest in front of him. They stood like this for a long while before the doctor stepped to the closet and opened a drawer, pulling out Sherlock's sleeping shirt and bottoms before tossing them to the taller man.

"You sleep in here," John said quietly, clearing his throat. "I'll sleep on the couch. I don't want Danny waking up and finding you."

"John-"

"It's okay, Sherlock, I just need some time." John rubbed his eyes before leaving, closing the door behind him. He busied himself cleaning up the mess from the spilt tea and putting the mug in the sink. When he couldn't stand anymore he walked to the couch, curled up in a ball and wept.

* * *

John was woken by a high-pitched squeal and a heavy weight winding him as it landed on his stomach.

"Dadda!" Danny yelled, wrapping his arms around his father. "What'cha doing on the couch?"

"Oh, I must have fallen asleep," John yawned. Had it all been a dream? He switched on the TV, turning it to a cartoon channel. "Dadda's going to go and get dressed. Stay here, okay?" Danny nodded, attention on the animated bears on screen.

John made his way to the bedroom, almost afraid to open the door. When he did, though, he nearly cried at how perfect it was. Sherlock was fast asleep on his side in John's spot on the bed. The doctor wasted no time in crawling in beside his lover, gently cupping his face with one hand.

"Sherlock," he whispered. The grey eyes slowly blinked open, widening in surprise as he saw John so close. "You're alive."

"I am," the detective replied sleepily. John hesitantly leant forward and brushed his lips over Sherlock's.

"I missed you," John said, sighing contentedly when long arms came up to pull him closer. He nuzzled into Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the smell he'd missed so much.

"I missed you too," Sherlock mumbled, pressing a kiss to the smaller man's head.

"Lestrade and Mycroft are shagging," John blurted out. He almost stopped himself, but then he couldn't because being in Sherlock's arms again was too perfect and finally he had his second half back.

"Arck," Sherlock frowned in distaste as John pulled back to look at him. "You can't be serious?"

"I am," John grinned before bursting out laughing. The detective chuckled with him, holding him tighter.

"What do I tell Danny?" John asked as they stopped laughing.

"About his uncles shagging?"

"No, you know what I mean. About you being back."

"Nothing, just tell him I'm home and let him ask what he needs to."

"Okay," John said, getting out of bed and walking to the door. "Come out in a minute."

Danny was still watching cartoons as John walked back into the room. "You didn't get dressed, Dadda."

"Danny, I have a surprise for you, something to show you," John explained.

"What?" Danny asked. "Present?"

"Kind of," John shrugged just as Sherlock stepped from the bedroom.

"Daddy?" Danny whispered, jumping down from the couch and standing. He didn't move, his arms lifted slightly at his sides as his mouth fell open in shock and confusion.

"Yeah, it's me," Sherlock grinned, moving forward. He stopped in front of his son, crouching down to his level. "It's me, Danny."

Danny slowly reached up a hand to pat his dad's new short ginger hair.

"It's not like me now," Danny said quietly.

"Oh, Danny," Sherlock breathed, pulling his son into his arms and cradling him to his chest. "I missed you so much. Oh, how I missed you." Danny pushed impatiently at Sherlock's chest until the detective reluctantly pulled away. The boy ran to John and lifted his arms until he was picked up. Danny whispered in the doctor's ear, hands tightly holding onto his dad's shirt.

"He wants to know if you're a ghost," John said, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

"I'm not a ghost, Danny." Sherlock stepped forward and rested a hand on John's back, the other coming up to rest on his son's cheek. "I'm alive, I'm okay."

"Dadda said you died," Danny mumbled.

"I know, I know he did. That was my fault. I went away to keep you and Dadda safe, but now I'm home."

"Did you have fun in Heaven?" Danny asked and John laughed aloud.

"Nowhere's fun without you," Sherlock said, taking Danny back into his arms.

It took Danny longer than John to accept Sherlock back into their lives. For most of the day the boy stayed in his room, playing alone and staying quiet when the detective tried to talk to him.

"Danny, are you okay?" Sherlock asked his son when the three of them were sitting on the couch later that day. Danny had sat on the other side of John, ignoring Sherlock when he tried to pull him onto his lap. At his dad's question the boy just turned and glared at the detective before resting against John again.

"Danny, don't be rude," John chided gently. "Talk to Daddy."

"No!" Danny yelled, jumping to his feet and causing both of his dads to reel back in shock. He climbed over the doctor and began hitting Sherlock, his tiny fists punching any spot he could reach. The detective just sat in shock for several moments before he took his son's fists in his hands, trying to still him.

"Danny, stop," he soothed.

"NO!" the boy yelled louder, squirming against his dad's grip. He finally gave up, collapsing in a small ball between the men and crying softly. His bright blue eyes moved up to look at Sherlock. "You made Dadda  _so_  sad. He loved you and you made us sad."

"Danny, I'm sorry, I told your Dadda that I'm sorry," Sherlock insisted.

"No! Not good 'nough! Say sorry again!" the boy climbed over Sherlock to sit on the arm of the couch and pushed the detective towards John. "Say sorry to Dadda!"

"John, I'm sorry, you know that," Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around John to pull him close. "I love you, and I'm so sorry."

"Now hug him better," Danny said, still leaning on his dad. Sherlock did as he was told, using both arms to pull him flush against his side. John smiled in amusement.

"He's gotten bossy in my absence," the detective whispered to his lover. "Should I blame you for that?"

"SHHHH!" Danny hissed, his face contorting adorably in frustration. "Do you forget him, Dadda?"

"I think you mean 'do I  _forgive_  him', Dan," John corrected gently. "And yes, I do."

"Okay, then," Danny smiled, moving to Sherlock's lap and pressing himself between his dads.

"Cause we missed you, Daddy," Danny mumbled, voice muffled by John's jumper. "Don't go away again."

"I won't, love," Sherlock promised. "Never again."

"Good," his son replied, pulling John's arm so it was wrapped around him and they were a family once more.

* * *

That night John and Sherlock fell into bed together for the first time in four months. The detective wound himself around his blogger, letting their legs tangle together and leaning forward so they were facing each other, noses almost touching.

"He's so much like you," Sherlock whispered. "All that yelling and punching, I thought you'd get there first, but no he did quite a good job of it."

"That's  _not_  what I look like when I get angry!" John argued, but couldn't help curling his arms tighter around the detective's waist and pulling him closer.

"It is!" Sherlock chuckled softly. "Your forehead gets all wrinkled – there! Like that!"

"I'll get him back in here to hit you if you're not careful."

"Setting my own son on me, quite the threat."

"Well, sometimes you need a good punch in the face," John said quietly. Even in the darkness of their room Sherlock could see the pain in John's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, love," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward to kiss the doctor. "I never meant to hurt you so much." John didn't reply, just reached up to clench his fists in the detective's shirt and pull him impossibly closer.

"Just kiss me you twat," he replied with a groan. Sherlock wasted no time in doing so; nudging John's head back so their lips could meet. The doctor's lips parted on a sigh and Sherlock didn't hesitate to deepen the kiss, clashing their teeth together as desperation overcame them.

"Missed you so much," Sherlock mumbled between kisses, rolling them so he could settle between John's thighs. He began to kiss his way down the smaller man's neck, biting and licking and  _marking_ him.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," John breathed, barely aware he was talking. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Mmm, love you more," the detective groaned against John's neck, hands coming up to slip under the doctor's shirt.

"You're too thin," Sherlock mused aloud as he tried to pull of John's shirt. It seemed impossible though, their bodies so fiercely tangled together that removal of clothing would require too long for them to separate.

"Like you can talk," John replied, hands roaming Sherlock's chest and back. He couldn't get enough of the detective. It had been so long. He pulled back to look up at him and Sherlock stopped.

"Okay?"

"I love you," John whispered, his chest tightening in pure adoration. Sherlock reached down to brush the hair from the doctor's forehead. The detective beamed, leaning down to kiss John once more, softly this time.

They were interrupted by the bang of their door being opened and they both flew apart.

"Dads," a tiny voice came from the doorway. "I can't sleep." Sherlock and John turned to each other with a sigh.

"Come here then," John said, moving to the end of the bed to help their son up.

Danny curled up against John between his dads, tucking his head into the doctor's shoulder. John looked apologetically at Sherlock who just smiled, resting a hand on their son's back.

"Tell me a story, Daddy," Danny whispered against John's shirt.

"Um…" Sherlock mumbled, voice still slightly husky. He coughed to clear his throat.

"It has to have us in it, all the family," Danny clarified. "But mostly Danny."

"Okay, once there was a stubborn, reclusive detective called Sherlock," Sherlock began. "And one day he met a handsome prince called John-"

"How would a detective and a prince meet?" John interrupted.

"Fine, Sherlock was a knight and John was a prince."

"Why do you get to be a knight?" John questioned.

"Can I be a prince?" Danny asked.

"Yes, you can," Sherlock said, ruffling his hair. "So King Sherlock and his Queen John- OW!" the detective yelped as John punched his shoulder.

"I did tell you that I was going to punch you."

"I guess I didn't think it was going to come during story time."

"I am  _not_  your Queen."

"STORY!" Danny shouted.

"Okay, okay…" Sherlock started to continue but lost his train of thought.

"King Sherlock and Queen John…" Danny prompted, earning Sherlock another punch and causing all three of them to dissolve into fits of giggles.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The three of them were slowly able to drift back into their old routine. There was no denying that things had changed, but Sherlock was trying to making it right again. Danny was still hesitant to trust Sherlock entirely and automatically chose John if he needed to ask for something or be picked up.

"It's as if I'm not even his father anymore," Sherlock mused one day during Danny's afternoon nap. John was leaning sitting at the end of the couch, the detective's feet in his lap, updating his blog. They had spent the week telling people about Sherlock's faked death. First Mrs Hudson, then Scotland Yard, and then Harry (Sherlock's eye was still bruised from the punch he received). They visited Mycroft and Sherlock entertained Danny outside while John yelled at his brother for not telling him before finally there was a loud thud and the doctor strode from the room, knuckles bruised.

"Don't be ridiculous," John replied, resting his hand on the detective's ankle. Sherlock didn't move, palms pressed together against his lips.

"He won't let me read to him," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. He was clearly lost in thought.

"That's because you insisted on reading him that journal with the dissection diagrams on every page. He wanted to know why someone would cut open a 'perfectly good frog'."

"That's not it. He likes the journals, he just wanted you to read to him because he's closer to you now."

"Sherlock, you were gone for over three months," John explained. "It was just the two of us. Of course we grew close, we needed each other."

"I wish I hadn't left."

"Yes, well, so do I," John replied shortly, looking back down at the newspaper he had been reading earlier. Sherlock looked up, sitting forward.

"Are you still angry?"

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock?" John nearly yelled, causing the detective to pull his feet back in shock. "You were gone! I thought you'd left me, left us. I don't know if Danny really understood, but he knew that I was sad. He knew that you'd hurt me by leaving. I've never felt so alone, Sherlock." John's head fell forward into his hands.

"John," Sherlock whispered, placing a hand on the doctor's back. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," John said, letting Sherlock wrap his long arms around him and pull him close. "But you still did. It hurt, you broke my heart."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock murmured against John's hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John realised that Sherlock had begun to cry and just held him.

They stayed in that awkward embrace for a long while, John muttering soothing words and holding his detective tightly against him. Eventually he pulled Sherlock back so they were lying on the couch, Sherlock splayed over his blogger.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"I do forgive you, you know that, but that doesn't mean it's all okay."

"I know."

"I missed you. I missed this."

"What? Me crushing you?"

"'s nice, I like being in your arms."

Sherlock didn't reply, just began to softly kiss John's neck. "You're beautiful."

"I'd say the same about you, still not sure about that hair though."

"I thought it looked okay," Sherlock defended self-consciously.

"I'm joking, babe.'

"Babe? That's as bad as me calling you my Queen."

"It didn't sound so bad in my head."

Sherlock continued nibbling at John's neck, spurred on by the soft sounds the doctor was making.

"Hey, are you giving my a hickie?" John protested, trying to move away which proved impossible when he was pinned down by the taller man.

"Mmhmm," Sherlock nodded. "Mine."

"You're like a child sometimes," John replied, sinking back against the couch and bringing his hands up to run them through the detective's short curls.

Sherlock pulled back, admiring his work with a chuckle. "Just claiming what's mine."

"We're grown men, Sherlock," John said. "Don't you think it's a bit weird that we're necking on the couch in the afternoon?"

"I might," Sherlock replied, nuzzling back into John's shoulder. "If we didn't have a toddler that insists on sleeping in our bed every night."

"That might be my fault," John admitted. "I let him sleep in my bed a lot while you were…away. It helped with the nightmares."

"I don't blame you for that. But I might start tossing blame at some point if I can't shag you soon."

* * *

The following day Mycroft came over, stepping into 221B to find John and Sherlock lazing on the couch while Danny played on the rug in front of them. Sherlock had his head in John's lap, a book lifted over his head and was reading quietly aloud while the doctor ran his hands through the now black curls.

"I see you've dyed your hair back," Mycroft said as he took in the scene before him.

"Danny insisted," Sherlock replied before continuing to read.

"Uncle Mykie!" Danny yelled, jumping to his feet and throwing himself at Mycroft's legs.

"Danny!" the politician exclaimed with much more enthusiasm than he ever usually showed.

"Let's see what you've been teaching my son, then," Sherlock said as he sat up, tossing his book aside.

"Mainly the alphabet," Mycroft said, sitting down next to the boy and waiting until Sherlock sat opposite.

Danny seemed to know what to do and pulled a pile of paper off the coffee table along with some crayons. "Tracing?"

"Yes, start tracing," Mycroft instructed. The boy pulled a sheet of paper from the top of the pile and began tracing over the letters of the alphabet in blue crayon.

"What's this about you shagging Lestrade then?" Sherlock asked, watching with amusement as his older brother's attention shot to him, eyes wide.

"What…how…I…"

"What's 'shagging'?" Danny asked, still focussed on the 'D' he was tracing.

"Shagging is sex," the detective explained bluntly.

"It's like cuddling for adults," John said. Danny nodded.

"So, are you shagging Lestrade?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Mostly. Sometimes he shags me," Mycroft replied with a smirk only to receive a horrified grimace from his brother. The detective jumped to his feet before dramatically falling back onto the couch and burying his face in John's lap.

"I'll never be able to delete that, you horrid man," Sherlock whinged.

"Well, I'm getting an unnecessary glimpse into  _your_  sex life right now," his brother quipped. Sherlock reluctantly turned to face his brother, letting John resume the soothing motion of his fingers through the detective's hair.

"What sex life?" Sherlock huffed with a scowl only to receive a firm tug of his hair from John. Mycroft raised his eyebrows but didn't comment.

"Finished!" Danny announced, holding up his work.

"Good job, bud," John said, reaching over to high five his son. "Wanna show Daddy how you can write your name?"

"It was always English with you wasn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as Danny began to write his name next to the alphabet. "Never one for science."

"You only turned to science when you realised that there was no 'pirating' course at Cambridge or Oxford," Mycroft answered.

"Quite true, if only there was and I'd send Danny there."

"Danny will  _not_  be a pirate," John objected.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean 'why not?' Pirating is not an acceptable job choice," the doctor said. Sherlock sighed sadly.

"You did like English literature while I taught it to you," Mycroft interrupted.

"Yes, but then you went off to university and left me with that horrid family of ours."

* * *

It wasn't long before Sherlock began taking on cases again. Starting off he just took small ones, answering the emails on John's blog and working from home. Despite being the one to suggest that Sherlock needed to get back to work (after the detective spent an entire day on the couch constantly announcing that he was "bored!") John didn't return to the surgery. He helped out in cases where he could, but mostly he looked after Danny and taught him numbers and letters while the detective was busy.

"Danny's birthday is soon," Sherlock announced one morning, looking up from the microscope in front of him.

"Yeah, in three weeks!" John realised, resting a hand on his son's back where they were rested on the couch.

"Yes, March 27th," Sherlock said. "He'll be three."

"Good deduction," the doctor teased.

"We should find him a pre-school."

"I thought you wanted to teach him?" John asked as Danny fidgeted on his lap, realising they were talking about him.

"I do, I do, but pre-school isn't about learning. I think he needs to interact with other kids his age. He spends all his time with us – that's sure to screw up any child."

"I like spending time with you, Daddys," Danny piped in.

"We like spending time with you too, bud, but don't you want to meet other kids?" John asked.

"Other kids are stupid," the boy replied. "Simple brains."

"What have you been telling him?" John shot at Sherlock.

"I didn't tell him anything!" the detective replied with a chuckle. "But he is correct. He's much smarter than the average three-year old."

"Dan, you'd love pre-school," the doctor urged. "Meeting other kids, playing with all the toys there. It'd be fun."

"What do you want to do for your birthday, Danny?" Sherlock interrupted, changing the subject.

"See the ducks."

"We can see the ducks anytime, how about we have a party?" John asked the boy.

"Only if there can be a frog there."

"A…frog?" Both John and Sherlock looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Yes, a frog," Danny replied seriously. "A frog at the party. One like in Daddy's book, but not a dead one."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Sherlock said finally.

"Sherlock, where are we going to get a frog?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll call Molly, they might have some there as test subjects."

"Okay, you get the frog," John agreed. "I'll organise the rest. I'm afraid of what we'll end up with if I leave it to you two."

So John began to organise, grabbing a notepad and scribbling ideas while Danny crawled down off the couch and started to play with his toys. With Sherlock focussed back on his case notes and John writing down party ideas neither noticed when the boy began making his way to the mantelpiece.

Danny waddled closer and closer, finally reaching Sherlock's armchair and pulling himself up onto one of the arms. He used his leverage to reach his tiny arms out towards what he had his mind set on. He squinted at the picture frame in front of him that held a photo of his dads with their arms around each other. With a leap he launched himself off the chair, arms reaching out to try to grip the frame. It was like it happened in slow motion; John and Sherlock both saw the jump, their hearts stopping in their chests as they leapt to their feet in unison.

Danny swung, one tiny hand clutching the edge of the wood but his arms weren't strong enough to hold him. He fell with a cry, landing on his side and screaming out. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, picking the screaming toddler up and cradling him to his chest. John wasn't far behind, trying desperately to soothe his son, but the boy wouldn't listen. Danny was beyond reason, barely able to breathe over his desperate sobs.

Sherlock was panicking, eyes alight with worry and fear for his son, but John managed to pull himself together enough to check the boy over. When he touched Danny's right arm the boy screamed impossibly louder and when John picked it up it fell back limply to his side. Sherlock gasped, clutching his son tighter when John tried to take him.

"Sherlock you're in shock," John said calmly over the piercing squeals coming from Danny. "Hand me Danny. We need to get him to a hospital, I think he's broken his arm."

"No, he's…he's…" Sherlock muttered. John gently plucked their son from the detective's arms and carried him to the door.

"Sherlock, can you get our coats?" John asked and Sherlock followed without question. Hailing a cab was easy, but John struggled to deal with both Sherlock's shock and Danny's pain at the same time.

Sherlock didn't talk for the whole ride to the hospital, not saying a word even when they sat in the waiting room or when they finally got ushered through to have Danny x-rayed. Only when Danny had been given a light painkiller and was having his arm strapped to his chest with surgical tape did the detective say something.

"How…how long will it take to heal?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, as he's so young it shouldn't take long," the paediatrician explained. "That's why we're not using a cast. He's growing so quickly at this age that it'll only take a couple of weeks to heal. We'll need to see him back here in two weeks. Call us if there are any problems." With that the doctor gave Danny a smile before leaving the small room.

Sherlock stood staring unflinchingly at John who was holding Danny. John reached out a hand and linked their fingers together.

"Are you okay, love?" John asked. Sherlock looked up, stepping forward to sit next to the doctor on the hospital bed.

"I just…panicked," Sherlock whispered, reaching out to wrap both arms around his lover and son.

"I know," John soothed. "I know. He's okay though." John leant against Sherlock's chest and Danny gripped his Daddy's shirt tightly in unstrapped hand.

" _You_  didn't panic," the detective replied. "You were okay, logical even. I just couldn't help thinking of all the things that could be wrong, of all the bones that could have been broken and I lost it I guess…"

"That brilliant mind of yours isn't always an advantage," John teased. "I've been trained to deal with those things. You were fine, you reacted like anyone would."

Sherlock just held his family closer, cupping the back of his son's head and pulling him against his chest. "You scared us, Danny."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"That's okay, baby boy. Don't do it again, though."

"I won't."


	14. Chapter 14

When Sherlock woke to the sun shining in through the open bedroom window and John's naked form wrapped closely against his side he almost laughed out loud at the happiness overwhelming him. It didn't take long to recall the events of the night before, him and John falling into bed together finally,  _finally_  after all these months.

"Stop thinking," John grumbled as he was roused from sleep.

"Happy thoughts," Sherlock replied, nuzzling into John's still slightly shaggy hair.

"Go back to sleep," John said, pulling his detective closer.

"I don't want to sleep," Sherlock objected playfully, gently nipping the doctor's neck. John felt himself being rolled, opening his eyes in surprise to see Sherlock leaning over him. "Last night was… _amazing_." The detective accentuated the last word with a long kiss to John's pulse point.

"I know, that's why I need to sleep."

"Sleep's overrated."

Sherlock continued to nip and kiss his lover's neck, letting his hands roam freely over the expanse of tanned chest beneath him. John finally gave in and reached up a hand to tangle through the mess of dark locks above him and pull Sherlock down for a long kiss. Their lips moved together lazily, both still tired from sleep and content to just kiss languidly.

John let out a soft moan when the detective began to kiss along his jaw, his hips settling between the doctor's open thighs as he continued down from jaw to neck to chest.

"Stop! Sherlock, stop!" John gasped, pushing Sherlock back off him forcefully and pulling the covers over him. Sherlock recoiled, not able to hide the hurt from his expression.

"John...?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sherlock, our son's at the door," John whispered, burying his head under the blanket in humiliation. Sherlock looked up to see that Danny was indeed standing at the open door – they must have forgotten to close it the night previously in their haste.

"Daddys?" Danny said quietly. "What're you doing?"

"Just cuddling," Sherlock replied, still shocked at John's reaction. Danny stepped forward and awkwardly pulled himself up onto the bed, struggling with his broken arm still strapped to his chest. The detective reached down the end of the bed and gave him a hand.

"Where are your pyjamas?" Danny asked. John groaned in embarrassment.

"John, you're being ridiculous," Sherlock sighed, pulling the covers off his boyfriend's head and letting Danny cuddle in between them, the blankets still resting over John and Sherlock's waists.

"Sometimes we don't wear pyjamas to bed," Sherlock explained to their son.

"That's silly," Danny chuckled.

"Yes it is," John said. "Very silly."

Sherlock leaned over to peck John on the cheek, softly whispering, "Relax, it's not a big deal" into his lover's ear before pulling back.

"Did you find a frog for my party?" the boy asked, climbing up onto Sherlock's lap and resting his head on his Daddy's chest.

"Yes, I did. Aunty Molly is going to bring one."

"Good, as long as it's alive."

"It will be."

"As long as Daddy doesn't get to it first," John interrupted with a grin. Danny frowned in confusion as Sherlock slapped John playfully on the shoulder.

"Daddy, you're not 'llowed to kill my frog," Danny pouted in an expression eerily similar to that of John when the doctor had found a human heart in the microwave.

"I won't, Dan."

"Good."

John lifted Danny onto his other side and let Sherlock curl up behind him, the three of them cuddling up to each other. The detective burrowed his nose against the back of John's neck and kissed him softly.

"Love you," John whispered.

"Love you more," Sherlock replied.

"Impossible."

John let Danny nuzzle up against him, his tiny arms winding around Sherlock's to hold the doctor close. John placed a lingering kiss on his son's forehead.

"I love you, Dadda," the boy said quietly before giving the detective's hand a squeeze. "You too, Daddy."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of this story, just the end for now. Follow me on tumblr at http://thescienceofgallifrey.tumblr.com/ if you like Doctor Who/Sherlock/Classic Rock type stuff on your dash :)


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